


Never is a Promise

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Barebacking, Consensual Underage Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Smoking, Somnophilia, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, boykissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: Sam is the geeky high school student, Dean is the too-cool, ridiculously hot, home-on-break-from-college student. Everyone wants Dean. Including, especially, Sam.





	1. Slow Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

> For my Sweet Charity bidder, linacaro_lj. This was a labour of love of the highest order; I knew what I wanted it to be, but I am still not certain I achieved it. It also spiralled out-of-control until it was a ridiculously huge piece of weecest fiction.  
> Section headings were all taken from various pieces of music. Title from Fiona Apple.  
> Beta'd by aelfsiden.

**Slow Like Honey [Prologue]**

~*~

_Sam Winchester could tell you how to slay a werewolf. He could tell you how to disassemble and reassemble almost any kind of gun. He could tell you Dean's favourite ice cream, or John's favourite swear word; he could tell you secrets the likes of which you'd never imagined._

_He could tell you how to get somewhere in almost every backwater town in the United States, without getting lost and without losing his most innocent expression; like he wasn't anyone other than your average kid on vacation._

_He knew so much more than your average fourteen-year-old._

_But he couldn't tell you, not in a thousand lifetimes, why he'd fallen in love when he did, or why he'd fallen in love with the person he did, only that his heart picked_ him _out of everyone in the world, and Sam was powerless to resist the lure._

~*~

_"Don't you walk away from me," Sam yells, but Dean doesn't stop his forward movement, legs carrying him away from Sam faster than Sam can catch up._

_"You wanted it just as much as I did."_

_Dean whirls. "Don't you ever get a clue?"_

_"I don't -- don't understand."_

_"It had to stop, Sam. It was wrong from the beginning, and I never should've let it go that far."_

_"Dean--!"_

_"Dad's coming back tomorrow, Sam. If you're smart, you'll never, ever give even the slightest hint that it ever happened. And don't ask me to reminisce with you about it, Sam."_

_By the time Dean's out the door of the old, ramshackle farmhouse they've been staying in, Sam can't breathe through the knot of pain in his chest, the fierce constriction in his lungs._

_He doesn't know how it's come to this, doesn't know how to cope through the pain of losing Dean._

_But he really should have seen it coming._


	2. Carry on My Wayward Son

**Carry On, My Wayward Son [part one]**

_Sam's dreaming, and in his dream, so incredibly vivid, is the taste of Dean, the essence of his brother surrounding him, and he gasps, stiffens, relaxes; his cock, young and still untested, releases into his sweatpants._

_When he wakes, finds himself sticky and soiled, he thinks at first he wet the bed. A fine thing that would be, to wet the bed at thirteen._

_But then he catches the scent of it, strange, foreign; he peeks into his underwear and is surprised by a fine white crust that blankets his dick, is sticking heavy to the fabric._

_He doesn't even remember the dream. He doesn't remember Dean in it, even when his older brother explains to him what just happened._

_But he will. Someday, he will remember that his first wet dream was all Dean's fault._

*

_Dean_ ," Sam whines, and Dean's awake in an instant, every sense on alert and focused on his little brother. It's been ever so, the minute Sam telegraphs distress in any way Dean's unable to control the way his body and mind reacts, desperate to ease whatever it is that's putting that note in Sam's voice. 

Dean knows, too, just as well which whine is just annoying little-brother Sam, and which is Sam's genuine expression of unhappiness, and so Dean blinks crusty eyes in the darkness and stumbles out of bed, walking sleep-drunkenly over to Sam's bed. 

Sam is fourteen years old, just gone through his first major growth spurt, and so Dean barely fits into bed with him, not like when Sam was little, not like the way it used to be, and for a brief span of seconds Dean misses the little boy he used to care for. 

"What's up, Sammy?" he whispers into the pillow, a little overwhelmed by the sweaty sleepy smell of Sam tickling his nostrils. He's not used to Sam smelling like an adult. 

"Everything hurts, Dean," Sam whimpers softly. "God, this sucks. I used to wish I'd be tall as you, but not if it hurts this fucking much." 

"Dude, watch your mouth," Dean admonishes quietly. "Y'know what Dad'll do to you if he hears that kind of language." 

"My fucking _knees_ , Dean, and my hips and my shoulders and--" 

"All right, I get it, enough with the litany," Dean says, but he doesn't actually _feel_ any of the irritation he injects into his tone. And he reaches down, under the covers, and runs a hand up the underside of Sam's thigh, thumb and forefinger rough-skinned yet gentle touch against the impossibly silky skin of Sam's hip, and he begins to rub in circles, deep enough to soothe and ease the joint, and Sam sighs, relaxes back against the pillow, the nape of his neck perilous inches from Dean's lips. 

Dean can feel his own breath wash back against his face in puffs of heat from the sheer proximity of Sam's skin, and he slides his hand back down the slightly scratchy skin of Sam's thigh to his knee, switching tactics, slipping his thumb into the groove of Sam's knee and beginning to massage the back of his knee too. 

Sam moans a little, and Dean has to recoil a bit from Sam's pert little ass to keep his sudden erection from drawing notice. It wouldn't do to let Sam know just how much this is turning him on, touching his little brother in this incredibly intimate way, even if it's just to ease some of the growing pains. 

Dean keeps rubbing, and after a long set of breathless moments, where he can't bear to move or speak or do anything that might break the spell wreathing them in sticky spiderwebs of complacency, he feels Sam's breath move in and out of his chest, even and regular, fast asleep and so heavy and warm against Dean's hands. 

Dean doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to emerge from the peaceful cocoon they've created in Sam's bed, to part from the way Sam feels. 

But he forces himself to withdraw his hands, to creep out of bed and back to his own, cold and bereft of Sam, which is a fuckin' tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. It takes a long time for him to fall asleep, still drugged and high from touching Sam, from having the excuse to put his hands all over that firm, young flesh. 

It's not lost on him how fucked up that is, to want someone so young, to revel in the feel of his body when he's barely over fourteen and doesn't even need to shave yet, even if he _smells_ like a man sometimes, the musky tang to his sweat clinging to Dean's nose, even as the faint baby powder scent of his shampoo caresses his skin. 

Dean closes his eyes, scratchy from staring into the darkness, and the first thing he sees is Sam, two days ago and fresh out of the shower, and there's really no way to excuse the way he thinks about Sam now, when he catches any glimpse of his little brother half-unclothed, and Dean bites down on his lower lip and thinks about cars, not so much less arousing as slightly more socially acceptable, and when he _does_ finally drift off, it's to the tune of the Impala's soothing growl under Sam as he opens Sam's perfect, untouched thighs wider and exposes him to his sight. 

*

Sam doesn't know when it started, these strange feelings he has for Dean that thrum under his skin like bees. Just as terrifying, too: the knowledge that his body is changing, that the first time he dares to touch his own cock, he's closeted in the tiny motel bathroom with the shower running out of hot water as he sits on the closed toilet lid, staring down at himself and chewing the inside of his mouth in concentration. 

He knows that Dean and Dad are just outside the bathroom, and he knows Dean at least will know he didn't _actually_ take a shower, even if his hair's wet, but Dad won't notice or care. 

He tugs once, and it feels pretty good, but a little tight and a little too much friction. He wants to ask Dean how _he_ does it, but not so much for instruction, and that kind of terrifies him. It's more because he wants to _know_ , absolutely transfixed with curiosity, desperate to see Dean's bare skin. 

Sam grabs Dean's hand lotion and covers his hands in it, even if he knows that'll be a tell-tale give-away to Dean what he's been doing, and tugs at his cock again, this time making a fist and sliding his hand up. 

It feels better combined with the lotion, and he's only fourteen and a half, so two or three more strokes and he makes a gloopy, sloppy mess of his hand and stomach and discovers that sex ed forgot to include information about hiding what you've just been doing. 

He hurls himself into the shower so quickly he clips his chin on the soap tray, but even though that smarts, the water's quickly going cold and so he scrubs away the evidence, ducks his head under the lukewarm spray and shakes it until water flies out from his hair, then twists the faucets and gets out, stares at himself in the mirror. 

He's got hair under his armpits now, has had for awhile, even, and his belly doesn't look quite as full and swollen as it used to, more flat and the muscles better toned. He wonders what Dean would think of him naked, if Dean would think Sam was anywhere near as beautiful as Dean is, because Dean _is_. 

Dean is the most beautiful person Sam's ever seen. He's so infernally perfect that it makes parts of Sam he didn't know he had ache in time with his pulse. 

Sam knows what all the girls think of Dean. He knows they track him with their eyes, and he knows that Dean follows their lissome bodies in return, takes some of them out and Sam's pretty sure they fuck, would be surprised if they didn't, and even though Sam _knows_ he's not ready for that, he can't help the little spurts of jealousy he feels. 

Dean's almost nineteen years old and it makes Sam jealous and sad because of that, too: Dean's going to outgrow Sam soon, going to wish his little brother would just fuck off and leave him alone, and the very prospect makes the cold drops of water on his skin turn frigid and make him shiver. 

Sam dresses, tries not to think about the way his clothes chafe against his body now, too small all over, and too much friction against sore muscles and joints. 

He remembers the way Dean touched him last night, slowly working the pain out, making Sam's body relaxed and liquid, and he'd fallen asleep with Dean still touching his skin in ways that made him tingle all over, but he'd woken up alone, and that was just the type of tragedy you found in something written by Edgar Allan Poe, his poetry especially. 

Sam opens the door, and the first thing that happens is Dean looks up and catches his eyes, and there's something there, some hidden language to the way that Dean's eyes always find Sam in a room first, and Sam's filled with trepidation and wells of sadness that someday soon that'll probably change. 

*

School sucks. Sam likes the work, likes the studying, enjoys the challenge of learning new things, but he hates the _people_. Most of the teachers are assholes, in too much of a hurry to really care about teaching them anything, and the other kids are obnoxious brats who generally just talk and spoil any interesting lectures Sam might have had. 

It sucks even more, though, when he has to go outside at free period and watch the cheerleaders, or listen to the incessant drone of the other teen-age boys as they enumerate every part of each cheerleader they like, and Sam wants to grind his teeth into dust, tell them that Ashley's tits aren't the only thing about her, or that Madelyn's ass is fine, yeah, but she has such a pretty face and why can't they look at that instead? 

It's the same sort of talk from the cheerleaders about Dean that gets his pulse racing and revs him up for a fist-fight, although he's always careful to hold himself back because not only shouldn't a boy hit girls, but Sam knows he's much stronger and in much better shape than any average high-schooler. 

In fact, he always has to tone it down in gym class lest anyone start asking questions. 

"Fuck, I wish I could get Madelyn on her back," Avery says, and leans back against the bleachers. He flicks Sam in the centre of his back. "Don't you want in her pants, Winchester?" he asks. 

"Not really," Sam says absentmindedly, still working through his pre-calculus homework, realising too late he ought to have been more careful. 

"You a fag?" Avery asks slyly. Sam looks up, examines the cheerleaders. 

"I think I prefer Beth-Ann," he says thoughtfully. "But I'm not ready for anything more just yet." 

"God, you're such a pussy," Jackson says, and kicks out against the lower bleachers. "I've already had Ashley. Twice." 

"Yeah, right," Gareth scoffs. "Like she'd even look at you twice." 

"I'll tell you who she _did_ look at twice," Avery says in a low, confiding voice. "Y'know the colleges are on spring break, yeah?" 

"Yeah?" says Gareth, looking way too interested. 

"There's this one dude, I'm telling you, he's got all the girls in a ten mile radius ready to drop their panties if he so much as looks at them. I guess he's on break, staying in a motel down-town and I have no idea what the fuck he's doing _here_ of all places, for a vacation, but Ashley got one good look at him and all of a sudden she was just cooing, for Christ's sake." 

"What does he look like?" Jackson says, sitting up and leaning in closer. Sam tries to tune them out, but there's something disturbingly familiar about this line of conversation. 

"Well, I wasn't really lookin', I was just eating my chili cheese fries with Ashley and some of the other girls after the game, but she swears he has the _greenest_ eyes she's ever seen, and wears a leather jacket like he's some kind of hotshot." 

"Bet Ashley thought the jacket _was_ hot," Gareth remarks. 

"Yeah, and not only that, but Madelyn pretty much sat up straight and thrust out her chest, even though she's got a better ass than tits." 

Sam's homework is utterly forgotten. They've gotta be talking about Dean, and to the best of his knowledge no-one in this town knows that they're brothers, and he's gotta keep it that way, because being known as Dean's brother would be social suicide. The comparisons would be fast and furious and Sam would be thought glaringly unattractive, and that would be the end of everything. 

No-one would ever let him forget it, and even though he doesn't much care about being popular, he would like a chance with a girl someday, and even though he said to the other guys he liked Beth-Ann, the truth is he does find Madelyn almost irresistible. 

She's got tiny perky breasts and the most killer ass he's seen besides Dean's, and even though he doesn't like to compartamentalise and comment solely on one feature over another, he is willing to concede that her green eyes and strawberry hair make him a little breathless. 

Not as breathless as Dean does, though, and the thought stops him in his tracks, makes him sink lower against the bleachers and try to appear as inconspicuous as possible. 

Gareth lets out a laugh, and Sam looks up sharply. 

"Dude, that's him!" Avery hisses, and they all look over as one, even Sam, because the instant Dean walked onto the football field, Sam could feel his eyes and sense his presence, and his gaze latches on Dean like he's on an invisible tether connected to his brother. 

The girls all start to titter, and then suddenly there's an outbreak of bouncing and cheering and just generally acting foolish, and even though Sam's pretty sure Dean wouldn't take out a high-school girl, he's still momentarily worried when Dean casts a glance back at Madelyn's ass, and then quickly rakes his eyes over Beth-Ann's currently bouncing set of double-D's. 

The leather jacket is Dad's, of course, but Dean lifts it every time John lets it out of his sight for even a second, and Dean's got the Impala too, parked alongside the football field, and Sam's about to wonder what Dean's doing when he leans against a tree and starts to watch the football players as they finish their warm-up. 

And even though Dean's hundreds of feet away and not looking at him, Sam gets the impression that watching the football game is only a cover for being near Sam, and the thought sends a little squiggle of pleasure through his stomach. 

All the guys sitting with Sam have barely moved since Dean showed up. 

"God, with _that_ hanging around, Madelyn'll never take her clothes off for me," Avery sighs. "He's so fucking good-looking I bet even dudes hit on him." 

"I know I would," Jackson comments, and only Sam hears the catch of desire in his voice, because all of the other boys are too preoccupied with staring at Dean in envy. 

Dean who looks good enough to eat, Sam thinks. He watches his brother too, and after a little bit Dean climbs up the bleachers and finds his way unerringly to where the four of them are sitting. 

"Hey, mind if I join you?" he asks, and Sam's breath freezes in his lungs, choking on his own oxygen, because Dean's just that goddamn beautiful, and Sam has never wanted to kiss anyone so much in his _entire fucking life._

"N-no," Avery says, and slides over even though there's tons of space. Sam's a little bit amused, the part of him that's not completely rapt over Dean, because even the guys are just as awestruck by Dean. 

Not that he can blame them. 

But Dean sits down next to Sam, gives him a sideways smile, but doesn't really give anyone any indication that they know each other. Sam guesses there will be time for that later. 

And truthfully, Sam has no idea why he does what he does next. 

He leans even closer to Dean, and pitches his voice husky when he asks, "Wanna go for pizza?" 

Dean's eyes widen imperceptibly to anyone else but Sam, but he nods and gets to his feet, holds out his hand. 

And Sam can feel the admiring and jealous glances of the girls as they walk down the bleacher steps. He's not sure if they know anything more about it than the fact that they're leaving together, but he wouldn't be surprised if at least some of the cheerleaders suspected. 

Sam slides into his place in the Impala and looks over at Dean, who's looking back, slightly perplexed and slightly-unshaven, eyes green wells Sam wants to drink from. 

"Okay, Sammy, give," Dean says immediately. "What's with asking me for a date in front of your friends?" 

"I uh... I just wanted some time alone with you," Sam says evasively. "Some time where people aren't staring at you like you're a piece of meat." 

"Dude," Dean says, and his fingers move over the gear shift, but he doesn't start the car. "I don't mind if chicks look at me like that." 

"Yeah, well _I_ do," Sam blurts out, then wants to die, to disappear into the leather seats like loose change and never be heard from again. 

"Well, well, well," Dean murmurs, and looks over at Sam again. "Sammy, are you comin' on to me?" 

"Of c-course not," Sam says, but Dean knows him better than that. Dean knows Sam better than Dean knows cars, better than he knows Dad, better than Sam knows calculus. He's gotta know Sam is flirting. 

The thought makes Sam almost queasy with worry. "You are," Dean says in wonder. He rolls up the tinted driver's-side window and turns on the bench seat, raising one leg so that his knee's on the seat, bent and his boot's hanging just off the edge. And then he's coming impossibly closer, so close Sam can smell the cigarettes he's been sneaking on his breath, and for some reason that sends a forbidden little thrill through him, and he looks up under his eyelashes, gauges Dean's mood, and discovers that Dean's turned on, wound up, his lips a little swollen and berry-red, his eyes murky and dark. 

Sam's still just looking, paralysed, afraid that if he moves the moment will shatter and Dean will suddenly be way over there, not close enough to kiss, not about to do it, either, if Sam's any judge of the situation. 

"Are you sure?" Dean asks, and his breath smooths across Sam's lips, and all Sam can do is nod, feeling like his skin is too tight all over, like his body is aflame with liquid fire. 

Dean doesn't ask again. Dean lowers his head and cradles Sam's cheeks with his big, strong hands, his calloused palms, and tilts Sam's head until they fit together, then descends, lips warm and soft as they come in exquisite contact with his own. 

Sam's never been kissed before, not unless his own hand counts, and so at first he's stunned and shy, too afraid to do anything, but Dean quickly moves his mouth over Sam's, tongue darting out to slick up his own lips and to fleetingly leave a streak of saliva on Sam's, and then he slowly moves his head again, and their mouths slip-slide together, and Sam can feel every single nerve in his body vibrating. 

Dean lifts his head, finally, and Sam can't breathe, his face is tingling and throbbing a little from Dean's stubble, his lips feel impossibly swollen and hot, and all he can do is stare at his brother like he's never seen him before. 

Dean looks a little a worried, raises his thumb and rubs along Sam's throbbing lips. "Okay?" he asks, and Sam's never seen Dean look so unsure of himself. 

"God yes," he says, and lurches up, initiates the next kiss himself, even opens his mouth a little, but Dean doesn't take the invitation. He kisses Sam back, but he doesn't deepen it, and when it ends again, he's quiet and reflective. 

"Not yet," he whispers. "We have a lifetime, Sam, there's no need to take it too fast." 

And Sam subsides, but Dean's hands linger on his face, and Sam thinks that _this_ is what he's been waiting for. 

And Dean's speaking only the truth, because they're brothers, which means they'll be with each other always. 

He doesn't know, yet, that anything could possibly rip them apart. 

*

"Touch me," Sam whispers, arching up in the bed. "Please, Dean," he says, feeling like he's out-of-control, like his body's a speeding train, rushing toward its destination without his consent, and Christ, but he's gotta feel Dean's hands on him. 

He wakes up with sweat stinging his eyes, spunk gluing his boxer-briefs to his cock, and the memory of Dean's hands gripping tight and sure just before he shot off like a misfiring gun. 

It brings back a memory, something he'd forgotten completely, and Sam remembers his _first_ wet dream. 

And this time he remembers what it was about. 

He rolls over and stares into the darkness, wishing he could see Dean, wishing Dean would do something more than just give him chaste kisses every once in awhile. It's driving him mad to have Dean so near all the time and to not be allowed to touch, not be allowed to feel Dean's tongue in his mouth. 

It's like they're dating, which is kind of crazy but still makes Sam feel warm all over, and he wants that next step, suddenly wants to know what Dean's naked skin feels like more than ever. 

"Dean," he hisses into the dark, but his brother doesn't stir. And Sam, ready to jump out of bed and poke Dean in the ribs, finds himself mentally falling backwards, feeling like he's floating on water, slowly being submerged, until he drowns in sleep once again. 

*

"Dude, onions and anchovies?" Dean shoves the pizza box towards Sam. "You're going to be toxic tonight." 

Sam grins, grabs another slice, kicks his brother under the table. Currently, they're alone, no-one they know in the pizza place, which is just how Sam likes it, no competition for Dean's attention. He takes a huge bite and lets wickedness infuse his grin. 

"Like that's going to stop you from coming on to me," Sam remarks. He kicks Dean again, trying to pretend he's not playing footsie. That's not just childish, but this is his _brother_ , not his date. Well, not exactly. 

Dean glowers at him, moves his ankles out of reach. "Dude," he says warningly. Sam smiles his most winning smile. 

"Dean, really though, when are you going to show me how to kiss? I mean, like you kiss girls." 

"Maybe when--" 

Sam cuts him off before he can utter abhorred words. "Fuck that. I mean it, Dean. I'm not a kid anymore." 

Dean eats a piece of the pizza even though he's done nothing but complain about it since Sam ordered it. He chews absently, and Sam thinks he's not going to get an answer, but then Dean drops the slice on his plate and leans across the table. Sam, unprepared, has a mouthful of pizza, and when Dean suddenly seals his mouth over Sam's, open and earnest, Sam spits food into Dean's mouth. 

He's got his eyes still open, so he catches the quickly shuttered grimace, realises that's not what you'd call romantic, and is about to pull away and apologise when Dean swallows and his tongue is suddenly _right there_ , hot and filling Sam's mouth, tasting of cheese and sauce and spices. 

Sam supposes it's not unlike when they were kids, sharing each other's food, even the half-chewed bits that Sam didn't like as a little boy, those unappetizing morsels that Dean nevertheless ate lest Sam get in trouble with their father. 

Sam doesn't know what to do at first, but Dean's not deterred, just keeps deepening the kiss until Sam gets the hang of it, till his tongue sweeps up to meet Dean's, and he realises that they're sharing spit and each other's space, and he's just about to close his eyes and let himself be carried away by the sensation when he remembers where they are. 

It doesn't matter how much he wants _this_ , he doesn't wanna do it someplace they might get noticed, least of all right now, in a place public enough that their father might walk in if he gets back from his hunt early. 

Sam jerks back and wipes his hand across his mouth, stares at Dean like he's suddenly morphed into a shapeshifter, ass cold in the metal seat and cock throbbing hot in his jeans, and Dean's looking back, and he doesn't look disgusted by the mishap that preluded the kiss, and he reaches out and wipes a trace of saliva from the corner of Sam's lips, and Sam closes his mouth, realising he's gaping, and throws his gaze almost violently at the scarred plastic table. 

"C'mon," Dean says, tosses a few crumpled bills onto the table, and gets to his feet, grabs Sam's arm and pulls him up. "Might as well go home." 

But not before Madelyn walks in, and Sam stops dead, torn between the gravitational pull of a pretty girl and the equally strong -- if not stronger -- similar pull of his brother. She stops, too, smiles a little at Sam, flips her hair and looks up and up and up at Dean, who is a lot taller than she is. 

"I didn't know you two knew each other," she says, liquid honey in her tone, clearly flirting. 

"We just met at the football game," Dean replies easily. "And I thought ol' Sam here could use some -- _instruction_." 

"In what?" she asks. Dean smiles and leans down, putting his lips intimately close to her ear. 

"Girls," Dean says, but even though it's pitched as a whisper, he keeps it loud enough for Sam to hear. Sam is hard-pressed not to laugh, but more than that, he's starting to twitch with annoyance, jealousy flooding through him, and he wants to get away from her now, as quickly as possible, because it's abundantly clear she's never gonna look at _him_ that way. 

She giggles vapidly, and Sam knows he's being unkind, but he doesn't really care; he can feel his expression darkening, but Madelyn isn't looking at him, all of her attention arrested by Dean. 

"Bet he could use all the help he can get," she says. "Not like you." 

It's unspoken, but Sam hears loud and clear just how hard she thinks he'd have to try to catch the attention of someone as attractive as Dean is -- and Dean, frankly, is a lot more gorgeous than she could ever be. Still the most beautiful human being Sam has ever seen, and that's saying a lot, because he's been criss-crossing the country his whole life. 

Dean gives her a smile suffused with warmth, his most charming, and Sam feels the ray of it heat him right down to his toes right along with her. She actually twirls her hair and steps a little closer, but then Dean lifts his wrist, makes a display of staring at his watch. 

"I have to get Sam home," he says. "Sam's got a curfew." 

"I bet _you_ don't," she says suggestively. Dean smiles again, a little bit tighter around the edges of his lips, but Sam would bet she'll never notice, not the way that he notices everything about Dean. 

"I bet _you_ do, though," Dean says. "And I'm a little old for you." 

Sam's surprised that Dean was willing to be that baldly honest, but she doesn't seem like she's taking it as the rejection it so clearly is -- at least in Sam's estimation, anyway. 

"Maybe tomorrow night," she says, "you could come to the game. I don't have a curfew on game night." 

"Maybe I will," Dean says, and then steps around her. "Nice to meet you--" 

"Madelyn," she supplies, and Dean pushes open the glass door. "C'mon, Sam, my car's just outside in the parking lot." 

Sam can feel her envious glare all the way back to the Impala, and he can't quite stifle the grin that ekes across his face as he throws himself into his customary place in the front seat. 

"Girls, Dean?" 

"You wanted me to tell her I was teaching you how to kiss?" 

"Maybe," Sam says coyly. "Maybe I wanna shout it from the rooftops that all those girls -- and a guy or two -- want you and you picked me." 

"Did I?" Dean turns the key, looks over his shoulder as he backs carefully out of the parking space. 

"Didn't you?" Sam knows his brother is teasing, but he can't control the way his heart leaps in uncertainty anyway. 

"Are we, like, dating then?" Dean pushes his foot down on the gas pedal and the Impala speeds up with a growl, merging smoothly into traffic. 

"God, no," Sam says, the expected reply. But his heart settles down, falls into a happy little triphammering rhythm, reassured in spite of Dean's caustic tone. 

"Thank Christ," Dean says, but his hand finds its way onto Sam's knee, turning and cupping the joint, thumb and forefinger rubbing in circles. "Still sore, baby brother?" he asks, almost conciliatory, as he brings the Impala the rest of the way up to speed. 

"A little," Sam admits, liking Dean's hand on his knee probably a lot more than he should admit to. In fact, his cock is pressing out the seam of his jeans now, pointing downward in the confining denim and aiming pretty accurately at the cause of the reaction. He slumps down in the seat, opens his thighs a little wider, and his knee knocks against Dean's, still with the arousing caress of Dean's hand on it. 

And Dean's palm, fingers still curving down, slides ever-so-slightly up Sam's leg, stopping just below the wicked bulge of his cock, and Sam wonders if Dean can feel the heat of his cock, the incessant pulse of his heartbeat in that area. 

Dean doesn't touch him any higher up, doesn't look at him, doesn't move his hand any more. It stays, warm and firm, on his lower thigh all the way back to the motel room. And when they get out of the car, Dean looks every way around them before he lets them go into the room together. 

Sam supposes it's just as well, since he's obviously an under-age kid and right at the moment no-one knows that Dean is actually his older brother and temporary guardian. 

*

"This show sucks," Sam says, lifting his feet and setting them on the coffee table. Dean doesn't change the channel, though, instead he unearths himself from the sagging cushions of his chair and comes over to the couch, where Sam is sitting, plops himself down next to Sam and slowly leans back. 

Sam finds all of his attention suddenly caught on Dean, the terrible television show forgotten, as he feels his stupid, young, over-eager cock swell in his sweatpants. 

Dean's still not looking at him, really, and Sam doesn't know if Dean's aware of his inconvenient erection, but being this close to Dean he can smell the old-sweat from wearing leather in the summertime, the faint tang of after shave and even a little bit of the remnants of cigarette smoke, which Sam finds oddly soothing. 

He knows, of course, that if John were around he'd beat the shit out of Dean for smoking, but that hasn't seemed to stop his older brother from lighting up when John's off on a hunt, and even though it _should_ gross Sam out, for some reason it excites him unbearably, and just the thought of a cigarette between those fucking lips makes Sam leak all over himself into his underwear. 

He sneaks a look at Dean, wondering if he can grab a pillow from the bed and cover his lap without Dean noticing, wondering just how far Dean is willing to take this new thing between them. And when he dares to raise his eyes all the way up to Dean's face, Dean is looking at him, eyes full of something heavy, maybe even as heavy as his cock between his legs. 

Sam jumps up, does a funny sort of sideways tap-dance so that his groin is partially obscured by the arm of the couch, and says, "I uh, have to -- to use the bathroom." He wants to be crude, like Dean, say _take a shit_ , or _feel like I need to unload_ , or anything really that doesn't sound so pussy, but the thing is, he doesn't want to cover up something like this with an excuse like that, so he just starts to sidle towards the bathroom, watching Dean warily the whole time. 

"Okay, dude," Dean says, smiles that smile that only turns up half of his mouth. "I'll be here when you get out. And spray this time, would you?" 

Figures Dean's not shy about things like that, not like Sam expected him to be. What Dean lacks in physical flaws he makes up for in grossness and crudity, and frankly, Sam could do without most of that, but at the same time it wouldn't be _Dean_ if he didn't, so Sam is conflicted, to put it mildly. 

He makes it to the bathroom without mishap, which is lucky because he's trying to walk out of Dean's view, which is difficult to do in the little, cramped motel room. And when he gets into the bathroom, he shuts the door and stares at it for a minute, remembering too late that the lock is broken, and the last thing he wants is Dean to walk in looking for his toothbrush or something. 

Which Dean would do. Dean has no qualms about that, either, which drives Sam nuts; skinny and still developing, he's afraid to let Dean see him naked in good lighting. Okay, not so much _good_ lighting as _any_ lighting. Late at night, in the darkness and covered over by blankets, he's less concerned if Dean puts his hands on his aching body, because at least Dean can't _see_ him, which Sam knows is stupid and childish but he can't quite help it. 

This time it's easier, having some experience of what to do, and Sam grabs a clothes hanger and shoves it underneath the door to make it more difficult to open, then strips and settles himself into the slightly raised bottom of the shower stall. 

Dean's shampoo is lying on its side on the tile next to Sam, and he flips open the cap and takes a long inhale, overwhelmed by the smell of Dean in his nostrils while he's naked, bare ass on cold tile, and then he squeezes the bottle, pours a generous amount of shampoo into his hands and goes to work. 

It takes a little longer this time, tug and release and then Sam staring at his cock and wondering why it's not working, until he thinks with a heated blush that maybe it's not _supposed_ to happen so fast. 

He fists his entire hand around his cock and pulls, bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle the moan that's rising up his throat, and he can feel his toes curl a little as he slides his hand down, and then, with a furtive look at the door, Sam lifts his jerk-off hand to his face and inhales again, this time the scent of Dean mixed with the scent of his own fluids, and his cock is impossibly hard, pressed against his stomach and Sam looks at it for a long moment. 

He's almost fifteen years old, so it's not like he's still a kid, but the thing is he's developing later than the other kids at school and he suspects it's a combination of diet and other vague types of neglect that come from being raised in such an unconventional fashion. Which is to say that his pubic hair is still sparse and faintly blond, making him still look embarrassingly like a child in that area, except for his dick, which is long enough, he supposes, but probably could be bigger and thicker, and he wraps his fingers around it again, a little disenchanted by the fact that he can do it easily with room to spare. 

Sam closes his eyes, because rather than stare at his own inadequacies, he'd rather think about Dean anyway, and he pictures Dean like he saw him last, on the couch with one leg settled underneath him, fingers calloused and capable, and Sam imagines that it's Dean who's touching him, Dean's hands, and on his mouth is Dean's lips and he's surrounded by the aroma that means _Dean_ , and he accidentally twists his fist on the upstroke the next time, biting down on his tongue and drawing blood at how good that feels. 

It occurs to him, as he feels his balls draw up and tighten, the muscles in his thighs tense, that it's not normal to close your eyes and envision your brother jerking you off as you take a whack at yourself in the bathroom. But in spite of that, Sam loses it, slips over the edge of no-return and comes, head falling back when he does, resulting in a loud and somewhat painful _thunk_ as he hits the back of the shower. 

Instantly he hears footsteps, followed by Dean's voice just outside the door: 

"Sammy? You okay?" Dean sounds concerned, and Sam looks down at himself again, painted in ripples of spunk, chest heaving, abdomen contracting, and his fingers a little pickled from the shampoo. 

"I'm fi-fine," he stutters, trying to get to his feet. "I'm just taking a shower and dr-dropped the shampoo bottle." 

"Better not be wasting any of mine, squirt," Dean says, and Sam gulps. Figures Dean would be protective of his shampoo. 

"No, Dad's," he says. "And the bottle didn't spill." He turns on the water and rinses off the sticky residue that would clue Dean into what he'd been doing in three seconds or less, trying not to get his hair too wet in the process. 

"Don't fall and hurt yourself, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam scowls. Three hours out from french-kissing him and already Dean's forgotten that Sam's not a little boy any more; Dean's using his baby nickname and telling him to be careful doing things he's been doing for himself for years. 

He kinda still wants to ask Dean what it's like for Dean when he beats off, if his brother even does that any more, what with all of the girls who follow him like lost chickens. 

Which reminds him of Madelyn, which makes his stomach plummet into his feet and causes him to scrub too harshly at his belly, thinking of Dean and _any_ girl, or Dean with anyone besides _him,_ and that draws him up short. 

Is Dean even bisexual? 

Sam can't answer that question, has no idea if Dean's ever done it with a guy before, or if his brother would even want to, and maybe that right there is the reason he won't take it any further with Sam: because he doesn't wanna fuck another dude, and even if he likes Sam _like that_ , maybe he'll never let them take it past first base. 

Sam finishes up in the shower and climbs out, stands naked and dripping, and then Dean muscles the door open, and Sam whirls, freezes; Dean, too, is caught out staring, and they're both in this kind of stunned tableau, neither breathing, or, at least, Sam's pretty sure he stopped breathing about thirty seconds ago and Dean is just _staring_ \-- 

And Sam learns something else about being a teen-ager as his cock, just spent only a couple of minutes ago, stands up and takes notice, rising like a flagpole and just as noticeable, right in front of his older brother. 

Dean doesn't move, and Sam couldn't if he tried, he can feel a flush sweep up his body, his too-skinny, not muscular enough, aroused body, and he wants to say something, but everything, including his own respiration, is thick and unmovable in his throat. 

And that's when the motel room door opens.


	3. Love Bipolar

**Love Bipolar [part two]**

Dean, quite simply, has been struck dumb. He's been imagining Sam naked for weeks now, and those vivid imaginings have gotten much more vibrant, technicolour, and usually Sam's doing something like dropping to his knees -- uh, that's not the point. The point is, it pales so badly in comparison to the reality that Dean can't do a fucking thing but stare. Can't speak, can't turn around and walk out of the room -- which would be the smart thing to do -- can only keep staring, half-terrified that there's a trail of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. 

Sam is all lean angles, stomach defined in a way that Dean's hasn't been since _he_ was that age and could eat them out of house and home without gaining an ounce. His eyes are huge, shining brilliant green in his pale face, and Dean doesn't think he even moves his neck to look down again, to take in the sight of all that pale, pale skin; Sam's nipples are dark pink, his navel an adorable little indentation in a belly that Dean remembers kissing when Sam was just a baby, but Christ, there's nothing babyish about him now. 

His hipbones stick out like little mountains and Dean wants to span them with his hands, to feel the bones dig into his palms, wants to go down to _his_ knees and open his mouth and do something he hasn't thought about doing since he was sixteen years old and sucked off his chemistry teacher to try and get an A -- a grade that wound up being useless, since he just dropped out of school in the past couple of months. He makes a much better pretend college student, a persona he adopted to pick up girls, except it seems to have worked exactly opposite by making him want Sam, instead of the girls that have been falling all over themselves since they rolled into town. 

Not that any of that shit matters. Sam looks so fucking good it hurts. Dean never really thought much beyond what he would do if Sam, by some miracle, ever reciprocated his feelings, but he has a suspicion he's just found out, and that it doesn't include tenderness or laying Sam out on a bed amidst burning candles and popping his ass-cherry. Yeah, okay, so the romantic imagery got a little busted there at the end, but Dean's not really sure how else that could have ended, staring at Sam and wishing that he did have him flat on his back so he could push up his knees and expose him in a way that frankly, Dean hasn't thought about since Sam was a little kid. 

More than that, Dean has a feeling that _he's_ more likely going to be the one who winds up on his back, especially if that cock is anything to go by: much bigger than Dean was at that age, and impressively swollen and flat to Sam's perfect belly, surrounded by the barest thatch of curls, and Dean can just imagine how Sam must smell, still young enough that his musk might not be as strong as it would be later; his skin firm and taut, his thighs muscled and strong, and God, but Dean's still staring, still unable to move, to speak, to do a damn fucking thing beside drink in the sight of his little brother naked in good lighting. 

His own cock is so fucking aroused in his jeans that he thinks he might already have blue balls and he's only been this worked up for a few minutes, maybe even as little as a few seconds, but it doesn't seem to matter, all he can think about is making his legs move so that he can press up against that lithe young body, feel the slender line of it against his own muscular build, take those lips in a perfect kiss that would blow that earlier kiss right out of the water and hopefully end with them in bed. 

Okay, Dean knows it's too soon for that, but he'd like to kiss that expression off of Sam's face anyway, because he can read Sam like an open book and, frankly, he's always been able to. And Sam is paralysed himself by the thought of being inadequate, when he's anything but. 

And not only that, but Sam's wreathed in droplets of water, which, as a matter of fact, has leached every last bit of moisture from Dean's own mouth. 

And that's when the motel room door opens. 

*

Dean moves first, saving Sam from having to do something besides the only thing he can think of to do, which is throw up all down himself and hopefully cover his _stupid, stupid_ fucking cock, getting hard _now_ of all times, and just moments after he whacked off, anyway. 

Sam throws a towel on and then another, buries himself in them, only his head sticking out, and his bony ankles and a bit and a half of his calves. 

At which point he hears Madelyn in the outer room, and stops moving again, terrified. No-one can know he's in here. No-one can know that he and Dean are brothers, that especially, because if anyone knew he couldn't kiss Dean any more and there's no tragedy worse than that, not even something penned by Shakespeare. 

He can't hear what they're saying, but he manages to dress in near-silence, listening to the low cadence of their voices, and then the door clicks quietly shut and Dean walks back into sight, framed by the doorway. 

"You can come out," he says, and his voice sounds a little funny, which makes Sam wince inwardly. He dares to let his eyes flick down, and wants to groan, because Dean is hard as a rock in his jeans, and Christ, but he doesn't think Dean is wearing any underwear because he can see the fucking exact _outline,_ even the head of his cock for fuck's sake, and Sam knows immediately it's because of Madelyn, and Sam waits, miserably, for Dean to tell him he's going out. 

"Dean, I'm just going to--" 

"See anything you like?" Dean asks, lips curving wryly, and Sam feels like he just ducked his face into a raging inferno. Busted. 

"Dean, look, she's really too young for you and--" 

"So are you," Dean points out. "Younger than she is, in fact." 

Sam scowls again, glowers at Dean from beneath his dripping bangs. "Yeah, but she's jailbait," he says darkly. 

"I repeat," Dean says archly, "so are you." 

"I'm also your little brother, which means no-one is going to automatically assume we're screwing each other." 

"Sam, no-one knows at the moment that that's what you are." 

" _And_ I'm a boy," Sam says triumphantly. Dean shakes his head. 

"Okay, that much is true," he says, but he doesn't return his gaze to Sam's _stupid, stupid_ dick, for which Sam is eternally grateful. 

"I wanna go to bed," Sam says, not particularly caring if he sounds like a bratty young child or not. Dean tilts his head but nods, steps back out of the doorway to let Sam pass, and Sam throws the wet towels at him as he walks by. 

By the time he's covered to the chin in bed, he's less wary of letting his eyes seek out Dean, who's returned to the television. Dean has turned out all the lights, lowered the volume, and Sam's eyes slip closed, the backs of his eyelids painted by the glow of the television in the darkness as he drifts off to sleep. 

*

Sam dreams of praying mantises. It's a disturbing, not quite cohesive, dream, where he watches with interest as the female bites off the head of the male, and he wakes up in a cold sweat, immediately seeking out where Dean is in the room, until he locates his brother asleep in front of the television, which is tuned to a nature show. 

And he feels curiously like maybe that's what's happening, like if he's not careful he'll just be entirely consumed by Dean, by his overwhelming, suffocating feelings of desire for his brother, and the thought is terrifying -- losing himself, no matter what he might gain, is not something Sam cares to do. 

He wants to get up out of his bed and go over to Dean, lay his head on Dean's shoulder like he might have done when he was still five years old and not nearly fifteen, far too old for such childish displays, but he craves it nonetheless, the closeness, the protection. 

His sheets are sticky with sweat underneath him, and he looks at Dean again, but his brother isn't moving, just breathing with a slight wheeze in his sleep, so Sam crawls over to the other side of the queen bed and creeps across the scratchy carpeting to Dean's bed, still made, and sneaks in between the covers with as little noise as possible. 

And then he watches Dean, silhouetted by the glow of the television, hair haloed gold and faintly blue, and Sam draws a mental picture of Dean, imagining what his lips must look like, slightly parted, pink and gold in the television's soft light; his eyelashes, casting intricate lacy shadows on his cheeks; his broad chest, rising and falling. 

And Sam realises he's hard again, tenting out the bedsheets obscenely, his cock much bigger than it was a couple of years ago, and, embarrassed, he sneaks out of bed again and into the bathroom, intending to beat it into submission. Well, you know. 

It's much too late for a shower, so he stands over the toilet with the seat up, reaches inside the worn, cotton-soft boxers that used to be Dean's, and pulls out his erection, which looks flushed and way too bright in the low illumination from the nightlight. It's like, when Sam looks at it, that he's pretty sure it's the only thing that would draw someone's eye if they walked in, which who knows, Dean might. 

Like earlier, for instance; it's not like Dean's shy about bursting into the bathroom even when Sam's using the toilet, or about taking a piss when Sam's in the shower, a fact that would drive him utterly up the wall except that those times, Sam's in the shower, water running, straining for the sound of Dean's zipper going down, for any hint of his cock in his hand, and Sam wants to see, not just hear. 

Sam's leaking down the side of his cock, and he starts to pull on his cock, slide the pre-come around it, and it takes a few tentative strokes to discover that he's not going to come as fast this time as last time or the time before that, and Sam tries to hurry it up, to make his cock behave, to make the feelings spring up wild under his skin until he's dizzy with it, breathless, unable to stop the inevitable jerk and spurt of come -- and he's still trying, slicking up his hand as best he can, and he even grabs one nipple under his torn t-shirt, pinches it between thumb and forefinger, trying to hurry up before Dean wakes up, but he's too late. 

Dean's suddenly behind him, close enough that his body heat soaks into Sam's sleep-clothes and makes his skin burn, makes sweat pop out all over, and then Dean's leaning forward, chin on Sam's shoulder, his hand coming around Sam's body to push Sam's hand out of the way, and then it's _Dean's_ hand on his cock, and Sam's petrified, stock-still and afraid to breathe, afraid that he's just dreaming this, that he'll wake up any second soaked in jizz in Dean's bed, but no -- it's definitely real. 

Dean's confident in his movements, knows exactly what to do where Sam's still learning, and he lifts Sam's cock up, slides his thumb over the slit, flipping his foreskin back with deft fingers and putting the flat of his finger over the opening, catching pre-come on it and then moving down, pointing Sam's dick towards the open toilet, and Sam realises with a sudden re-boot of his brain that he's about to come. 

His breath falls out of him without his consent, his knees buckle, and he's shooting streaks of sticky spunk into the bowl, Dean's hand still strong and sure, stroking him through the aftershocks, keeping it aimed so that he doesn't make a mess. Then, when he's spent, he falls back against Dean's broad chest, out of breath and vaguely dizzy, and Dean lets go of his dick, turns his head, and bites the lobe of Sam's ear. 

"Better?" he says in a voice like spun sugar, almost painful in its gentleness, and Sam can barely even find the energy to nod. 

He'd be ashamed of the fact that Dean actually whisks him into powerful arms and carries him to bed, tucking his cock out of sight and then slipping in beside him, yanking the covers over them both and turning away from Sam, but keeping the broad line of his back still against Sam's side, the heat of his body making Sam sweat anew. 

This time, when he falls asleep, he doesn't dream of being consumed. He dreams of a chrysalis, of the butterfly emerging, of the soft vibrant beauty of it, and he doesn't know if that's him, or Dean. 

*

Dean wakes Sam the next morning just after five with a gentle whack to the ankles and a hushed, "C'mon, Sam, gotta get our training in." 

Sam has long since reconciled himself to that fact of life, and he even welcomes it sometimes, like now, when it's Dean doing the reminding. Not so much Dad, of course, because he still can't make himself give in to John without at least a token argument, something that Dean attributes to stubbornness and teen-age melodrama, and Sam has never bothered to correct that misconception. It's too much work as it is trying not to come across as a spoiled teen-ager, and to be fair, he probably _is_ one, at least a little; Sam's not immune to growing pains, even if he might be smarter than your average high-schooler. 

Dean's fingers, when they come in contact with his bare ankle where he's kicked the blanket off during sleep, send a sharp flare through his lower body, and he buries his face into the pillow, thankful he's lying on his stomach, and wonders if he rolls over with an erection if Dean will stop, decide to let them go out later, and take care of it like he did in the wee hours of the morning. 

If that even happened, Sam muses, because the entire experience has that floaty, out-of-body tinge to it of a very good dream, and Sam can only plead with a higher power that he wasn't dreaming. 

Not that such a higher power would probably want to assist him, considering the object of his lust is his older brother, but Sam figures why the fuck not ask anyway. 

But when he finally rolls over and opens his eyes, Dean's sitting on the other bed, lacing up his boots, his jeans and shirt already on, his hair spiked, and Sam catches the whiff of mint and figures Dean's even brushed his teeth already. 

Sam looks down, briefly, at his morning wood, then climbs off the opposite side of the bed and pads into the bathroom. Once inside, he shuts the door, but he doesn't wait for the latch to click, hoping Dean will hear and take the hint, push into the bathroom after Sam and offer to help with his little problem. 

Sam wonders, as he begins to stroke his stiff cock, if Dean woke up this morning hard, and if Dean came in here and took care of it the same way, or if Dean wished, like Sam wishes it was Dean, that it was Sam's hand on his dick, Sam's breath on the back of his neck, now that Sam is almost as tall as Dean. 

Dean doesn't come in, though, and Sam manages to bring himself off and get most of it in the toilet even, before taking his morning piss and washing his hands. 

Being that they're in town, Dean has to drive them several miles out to find a good forested area for their daily target practise, which gives Sam plenty of time to sit in the passenger seat of the Impala and breathe in the scent of Dean, a little sweaty from sleeping, a little minty from his toothpaste, and a little bit of his deodorant tickling Sam's nostrils every once in awhile. 

It gives him plenty of time to feel Dean's body heat in the cool morning air, and to press his nose almost to the glass of the window and try not to think about getting Dean naked outdoors in the early morning, sunlight just coming up through the trees to shine against Dean's skin, shadowing it in gilt. 

Just the thought of it causes Sam's stupid dick to spring to attention again, and maybe it's the pretty morning outside the window, but this time, instead of feeling like he has to hide it, Sam reaches down and palms his cock through the worn denim of his jeans, hoping that maybe Dean will glance over, take a hint, and cover Sam's hand with his own, then perhaps even push Sam's hand out of the way. 

Unfortunately, though, Dean's eyes stay strangely glued to the road ahead of them, and he doesn't so much as twitch towards Sam in body movement or the direction of his eyes. Sam, disappointed, lets go and wills his _stupid, stupid_ cock to go back down. 

He thinks about John stripping off and going for a morning swim like he did a few years ago when they lived by a lake for awhile, followed by doing all of his exercises in the buff, and it works, too, killing Sam's erection -- although the irony is not lost on him that incest with his dad grosses him out, but the idea of anything with Dean turns him on until he's like a brushfire burning out of control. 

Sooner than Sam would like, Dean pulls off the road and into a worn track of dirt, driving down into the forest and parking the Impala, before turning to Sam with what looks like a very forced smile. 

Sam, for his part, has the terrible, vertigo-like sensation of thinking maybe last night didn't happen, and now he's gone too far, sickened Dean and his big brother will never kiss him again. 

And Dean, even though he's leaned over in the bench seat a bit, doesn't kiss him. He just says, all business, "Go get your gun out of the trunk, I'll meet you there in a minute," and throws open his car door, but not before Sam catches a glimpse of an ill-concealed erection in jeans so tight there's pretty much no room for all those extra inches. 

Sam shrugs, wonders just what Dean's playing at, but he snags the Impala's keys and walks around, opens the trunk and retrieves both of their guns, then stands around in the slight dew of morning waiting for Dean to re-emerge from the trees surrounding everything. 

There's a nip in the air, the sun not quite up to the task of warming everything up yet, and even though Sam shivers a little in his lightweight jacket, at the same time he enjoys the crisp cool air against his cheeks, his fingers. It doesn't hurt, either, that the cool air douses what little of his arousal is left. 

Dean walks back into sight, jeans snug across his thighs, and grins as soon as he sees Sam. 

"You ready?" he asks, and Sam wants to say, _yes, I'm perfectly ready for you to take off my clothes and violate me in every way imaginable,_ but not only isn't he sure that's in fact perfectly true, but he's pretty sure Dean would blanch and turn away, disgusted with Sam's forwardness. Somehow Sam knows that what Dean likes in chicks is not the same thing he'd like to see reflected in his little brother. 

"God, Dean, it's like six in the morning. I'm lucky I can see straight," Sam says. Unspoken is the nudge to Dean to remember what happened at around three or four in the morning to make Sam so tired now, but Dean doesn't rise to the bait, even though he's got to know what Sam's talking about. It's not like they can't read each other's thoughts on a regular basis. 

"Just don't shoot me in the leg," Dean says in return, and adjusts the silencer on his pistol. "And make sure you don't shoot anything alive, either, you remember what Dad said." 

Sam wonders what bringing Dad into the conversation means; is Dean subtly trying to turn away Sam's thoughts of last night? 

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," Sam says, but he can't help hoping that maybe any second this will turn into one of those bad movies where the dude has to put his hands all over the girl in order to help her learn to play baseball, or pool, or, y'know, shoot a gun. 

But then again, Sam's been a crack shot for years now, so it's not all that likely, and he resigns himself to that fact as he lines up his feet, looks out over the gun, and sets up his shot. 

He hits the tree he was aiming for, and Dean, leaning a hip against a tree nearby him, applauds lazily. "Nice shot, little brother," he says, and Sam imagines that what he means is, _nice long range there, good consistency, impressive shooting_ and that Dean's not talking about guns at the time. 

But that's just fanciful thinking, apparently, this morning. Dean steps up beside Sam, sets up his own shot, and manages to hit the exact same spot. Sam sighs and stretches his back, loosens up his muscles, because it is _so on_. 

He squeezes the trigger a second time and blows another hole into the tree on top of the one that Dean just made and can't stop his brain from circling back around to the idea of blowing another kind of load, which makes his jeans uncomfortably tight across the front, but Dean doesn't comment, not even to tease. 

It turns to a contest in silence, and the longer they stand there, the sun rising over the trees and pouring down morning heat over them both, the more Sam comes to realise that Dean's not _ever_ going to bring it up. He's not going to talk to Sam about the fact that in the middle of the night he stroked his little brother off. 

Dean's a fucking coward. 

Sam takes the situation into his own hands. "Dean, you remember last night?" 

"Mmhmm?" Dean opens fire again on the tree. The hole is rapidly spreading wider outward, and pretty soon they're going to have to concede that they're both as good as the other and find a new tree to practise on. 

"Did I wake you up?" Sam, even though he's broached the subject, is terrified that if he comes right out and says it Dean really _will_ pretend it never happened, and Sam's not quite sure he's ready for that. 

"Naw, I was just about to go to bed anyway," Dean says, though, avoiding the point of Sam's question about the same way Sam was being avoidant when he posed it. 

"It was hot," Sam tries again. "Thought maybe I'd have a shower." 

"Well, you should have, then," Dean says. "I would've been able to sleep through it, you know that." 

Even though that's generally true, it's also just as likely to wake Dean as to lull him to sleep, and they both know it. 

"You sorry I fell asleep in your bed?" There, he said it, now it's up to Dean. 

"'Course not," Dean says, and rounds toward him. His brow is furrowed. "Y'know you're always welcome, long as you don't kick in the middle of the night," Dean says. Sam scowls and tries to remember the last time Dean willingly shared a bed with him since he got tall enough to take up about as much space in bed as Dean does. Then again, that's partly why they went for the two queen beds this time when they booked the room. 

"Dean, come on, be straight with me," Sam says, a touch of petulance in his tone. "This dancing around the issue is stupid." 

"Don't know what you're talking about, Sammy," Dean says, and flips on the safety of his gun, tucks it away in the back of his waistband. "C'mon, target practise is over, gotta get back to the room and get you ready for school." 

"Dean, in the bathroom? Before we went back to bed together?" _Christ, that sounds so dirty, like they climbed into bed together and fucked until dawn_. Sam presses his lips together and tries not to imagine how Dean might've taken what he just burst out with. 

"Sammy, you sure you weren't dreaming?" Dean starts walking towards the Impala, and Sam, not ready to drop it yet, is forced to follow him, watching the way Dean's ass flexes in his jeans every so often when his button down shirt flutters out of the way in the breeze. It's a nice view. 

"I think I'd fucking know if I were dreaming," Sam snarls. "I think I'd remember my brother's hand on my cock in the middle of the night, like he couldn't keep his hands off me. I'd like to think I'm not crazy enough to imagine that was a dream." But even though he's angry, and even though he knows how sure of himself he sounds, he's not, in truth, that convinced it _wasn't_ a dream, because it seems to fantastical, so spectacular, that it couldn't possibly have happened for real. 

Dean whirls around, grabs Sam by the shoulders and crashes them both against the Impala's gleaming black side, and Sam hadn't even noticed they'd gotten back to the car yet. He's close enough that Sam can smell the slight sour of his breath under the toothpaste, the fresh sweat from exertion, can see the way his eyes are flecked dark. Dean presses Sam even harder against the metal. 

"I didn't fucking touch you," he says. "I didn't, and you remember that, goddamn you. And if you even fucking _think_ to mention this to anyone, I swear to Christ--" 

"Dean? You think I'm stupid enough to tell this to Dad?" He's incredulous, breath hot and expanding uncomfortably in his chest, too aware of Dean's proximity to properly feel Dean's anger. 

And when Dean presses even closer, one thigh going in between Sam's thighs, Sam can feel the slight nudge of his cock just before Dean shifts sideways and away so that Sam can't feel it any more. 

"I don't care what you think, Sam," Dean says with fire. "I ain't into jailbait, and I ain't about to fucking fuck with my own little brother like he's some whore." 

Sam stares, awestruck, completely dumbfounded, at Dean. Last night, when Dean's arms came around him, when Dean touched him so intimately for the first time, Sam had felt like anything but a whore. He's not sure he's ever felt so loved, so treasured, in his entire life, and that's after a long history of living with Dean and being the constant focus of Dean's love and affection. 

"I didn't -- I don't--" but Dean doesn't let him finish. Dean leans down until their noses are touching, his breath coming in fast pants that are being swallowed into Sam's own lungs. 

"You forget you ever had that dream," Dean says, and pulls back. "And fucking forget about trying to get in my pants, Sam, because I don't like you that way, and teaching you to french kiss was not only unwise but fucking stupid as hell." 

He turns away again, but not before Sam can see his hands go down, adjust himself in his jeans, yet by the time they're seated beside each other on the Impala's bench seat again, Dean's regained his composure. 

Sam stares out the window the whole way back and wonders just what happened last night, and whether Dean will ever admit to the fact that he clearly wants Sam, no matter what he says to the contrary. 

Dean doesn't really think Sam doesn't know just what Dean wants, does he? 

*

Sam spends his first three classes of the day thinking about Dean, which is a mistake when in pre-calculus he's asked to demonstrate a problem at the chalk board. 

By the time it's free period, he's pretty sure all of the guys he usually hangs with think he's got a crush on someone in pre-calculus class, which isn't all that far from the truth, since he does think Madelyn's cute, although he knows now that she'd much rather get with Dean than give him the time of day. 

He hears Gareth and Jackson whispering behind him in the cafeteria, and when he looks up, they both look guilty. 

Gareth speaks first, though, apparently deciding he might as well. "Sam, is there somethin' you wanna tell us?" 

"Not really, no," Sam says in reply. He's not about to confess to crushing on Dean, because what these boys don't know is that Sam isn't gonna be in this town long enough to want to bond with them any more than he already has, which is to say, not that much. 

"C'mon, Sammy," Jackson wheedles. "We're your friends." _Not really, no,_ Sam thinks, but he smiles tightly at them and sets them straight. 

"Don't call me Sammy," he says, and slams his math book closed. "And if you're asking about that college kid, I don't know anything more about him than you guys do, and frankly, I find it weird that you're asking." 

Avery walks up to them at that moment and stares at Sam like he can see through him. "Sam, you're not bein' all that open with us, now are you? Madelyn saw you at the pizza parlour, and I saw you get into that college kid's car. You anglin' for a piece of that ass?" 

"Even if I were," Sam says archly, "I certainly wouldn't tell you three about it. But, anyway, I don't know what he wanted, he asked me for pizza, that's all I know." 

"Uh, Sam, you know we were there, right? You asked him, and I don't get why he went along with it, but you don't have a chance with that guy. For one thing, he's gotta be straight, and for another, he's not gonna look at a high school freshman." 

Sam slumps down in his seat and thinks that they're probably right, because if this morning was any indication, he really _doesn't_ have a chance with Dean. The thought depresses him horribly. 

"I don't know," Jackson says, "I think he might fuck Madelyn, if what she says is true. She claims he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Even says he invited her back to his motel room." 

"Oh, _skeevy_ ," Avery remarks. "He's stayin' in a motel?" 

"He's on spring break, dude," Gareth says. "Where else is he gonna stay?" 

"I hope for his sake the cops don't catch him sniffing around Madelyn, like her daddy, for instance," Jackson says, and Sam feels himself flinch, hopes the other boys don't notice. Dean better be fucking careful -- if it's not an angry cop, it'll be an even angrier father, and that's a mess of snakes they don't need. 

"Did he hit on you?" Avery asks suddenly, even though a minute ago he was swearing Dean was straight. 

"God no," Sam says immediately. Even if Dean had, what would be the point of admitting to it now? 

"Did he hit on Madelyn?" Gareth inquires on the heels of that question. 

"He looked her over,' Sam admits reluctantly. "I'm sure he thinks she's hot; who wouldn't?" 

"I don't," says Jackson. Sam thinks he might not be very good at hiding the fact that he likes guys, which sooner or later is going to get him into trouble. Sam's not too worried about it for himself, because even if he _had_ a boyfriend, he wouldn't be in this town long enough to reap most of the teasing and hatefulness that might come with it. 

At least when he leaves town, he'll be going with Dean, though. _That_ thought cheers him up; even if Dean's being difficult right now, there's an endless string of tomorrows for Sam to try and get him to come around. Not like Jackson, who's clearly got it bad for Dean but will never see him again in a few days or weeks. 

And Sam is also just a little bit smug that all that and he knows how to fire a gun, too. 

*

After school is much the same situation as yesterday, the three of them on the bleachers, the cheerleaders warming up down below on the field, even right down to Dean driving up in his gorgeous classic car and climbing out, only this time he's careful never to so much as glance in Sam's direction, too busy staring at the girls, and Sam has the thought that by now, Dean's probably singled out which of them is actually old enough to hit on. 

Dean's not really as concerned about jailbait as he makes himself out to be, but he does try to steer clear of cops, which is what actually keeps him from sleeping with most girls under seventeen. 

That, and the one time he got caught at it, John let him stay in the jail cell for three nights before he even answered his cell phone to let the cops know he was Dean's father. 

Never let it be said that Dean doesn't learn a lesson well. 

But when Dean walks over to Madelyn and picks up her pom-poms from the grass, Sam feels a jolt somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone, and wonders if maybe Dean _has_ forgotten that lesson. 

Which is when Avery leans in close and says in a low hiss, 

"Did you know she's stayed back twice? I bet she might even be old enough for him." 

Jackson's eyes widen. "D'you think he knows that?" 

"I don't know how he could, but he's definitely singled her out. _And_ she's got it bad for him already. Fucking lucky dude." 

"Only if she goes home with him," Jackson says. Sam feels his head fall forward. If she does that, Sam's gonna have to find somewhere else to go, because they still don't want anyone to know they're related, especially not if Madelyn saw them kissing before she walked into the pizza place. 

Maybe Dean will be considerate and go home to her place. If her parents aren't home. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, is probably less likely than the eventuality that _Dean's_ parents won't be home, considering John is still out of town and hasn't called in three days, much less let them know when they'll be leaving town. 

Sam casts a furtive look at the three boys surrounding him and realises he's not going to miss them at all; in fact he'd just like to get away from them now, and get away from all those girls that look at Dean like his brother is God's gift sent down to them. 

If he's God's gift -- and that's a pretty big "if", with Dean -- then he's been sent to _Sam_ and Sam's the only one who should get to fuck him stupid. 

Like that's ever gonna happen, after this morning. And when Dean ducks his head down, whispers in Madelyn's ear, Sam wonders just what he's given up in the pursuit of Dean, and whether he can get it back. 

Wonders just how much it's going to hurt when the inevitable happens, and Dean chooses his next lay over Sam.


	4. You're My Temptation

**You're My Temptation [part three]**

Dean surprises him, though. By the time Sam sneaks back into the motel room after school, Dean's got a case of beer set out on the table and a couple bottles of harder liquor loitering there too. 

Sam's not anywhere _near_ old enough to drink, but he figures that much like a batterer -- not like Dean could be compared to one in any other way -- Dean's operating on a guilty conscience after this morning and offering, unspoken, to let Sam get good and properly drunk for the first time ever. 

Sam fully expects to be puking his guts out come morning, but that's not going to stop him from partaking. 

He just hopes Dean doesn't take them out shooting again when he's hungover; not only that, but maybe if Dean's drunk enough he'll admit to wanting Sam the way that Sam _knows_ he does. 

"I got ya something," Dean speaks first, not quite gesturing at the alcohol, but Sam's not blind, and they both know it. 

"You trying to get me liquored up so I'll put out?" Sam asks, even though he knows that needling Dean right now may not be the best idea. 

"Fuck off," Dean replies, and pours the first glass of whatever's in the bottle in his hand. He motions towards the beer on the table. "That's for you." 

Sam's not going to turn it down, especially not if this is Dean's apology. He walks over to the table, lifts a beer out of the case by the long neck and pops the cap expertly, years of watching Dean and Dad, and yeah, a few months of sneaking his own here and there, too. Dean thinks he's a geek, but it's not like Sam has never experimented before. 

It's not like he's never snuck porn on cable when Dean and Dad are hunting without him, although Dean knows him well enough to know that Sam really _would_ rather do homework. Or at least... 

That was before he learned how good it could feel to spank it, and now, well, he thinks he might have a problem. 

Dean turns back the shot glass, winces a little, pours himself another, which is Sam's first clue that Dean's trying to forget that morning, too. 

He has a feeling that's because it's a little hard to ignore the less-than-dampening effect that had on both of them. Sam reaches back, slides his hand beneath his collar, feels the sweat collecting against the nape of his neck just from thinking about the way Dean felt, all of those hard muscular angles holding Sam against the unyielding frame of the Impala. 

Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. 

Sam drinks his beer while staring at Dean, the way Dean's throat muscles work as he swallows down another shot, and he sidles up next to Dean on the couch, holds the cold, sweating glass of his beer bottle against Dean's shoulder, bare in nothing but a sleeveless t-shirt. 

Dean shudders, but somehow Sam doesn't think it's from the cold; Dean's sweating too, it's sparkling on his upper lip, at his temples; and Sam can feel it running liquid down the inside of his shirt, is desperate to get out of it. 

He finishes off his beer, and already the colours around him are brighter and more enthralling; the sound of Dean's breathing like a musical symphony; the taste of the beer less sour and more compelling. He reaches behind him and grabs another beer, putting it to his lips without looking away from Dean. 

Dean's staring straight ahead, his shot glass hanging between slack fingers, his breathing shallow like he's trying not to let on the effect Sam's having on him, but Sam's pretty sure it's along the same lines as the effect of sitting so close to Dean is having on himself. Dean's not moving, tension in the clean lines of his body, his neck muscles taut, and Sam can't help himself, slurps long and hard from the bottle, moving his lips over the mouth of it, and then it's down between his legs, cold against his erection, and his lips are against Dean's skin, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sweetness of his skin, like fine silk under his tongue. 

Dean still doesn't move, not at first, then he jerks away like Sam's bitten him -- which he might just do, later. 

"The fuck are you doing?" he growls, and finally turns to face Sam. "You purposefully bein' stupid?" 

He sounds southern all of a sudden, long drawl and inflection, and Sam shivers, unaware of just how hot that could sound, how much that sends fire racing along the nerves of his dick. 

"I'm kissing you," he says in a husky murmur, pitching his voice low. Smooth, like the liquor in Dean's hand. 

Dean slaps his face, hard, leaving his cheekbone stinging. "Well, fuck, don't," he says, but his voice is strangled. Sam sucks in a breath, stunned that Dean would hit him, yet not quite; hasn't he always known Dean thinks with his fists? 

This thought is followed by the furious realisation that Dean couldn't even be bothered to treat him like a boy, had to go and slap him like he might a girl, if Dean were prone to hitting girls. 

Sam sits up, away from Dean just by a few inches, and lifts his hand to his face, against the hot swell of his cheek. And then he's cuddling even closer, his shirt damp at the pits, around the collar; his jeans clinging to his cock, which is on display if Dean would only look, and then his lips are on Dean's shoulder, dragging down over his bicep, which is about when Sam realises he's drunk. 

Doesn't seem like it took much, does it. He doesn't even know he's said that aloud until Dean pushes him back, places his thumb over the seething heat of his lower lip, swollen from a combination of arousal and Dean's skin. 

"You're a fucking lightweight," Dean says, but he says it fondly. And then, all at once, Dean's closer than ever, his own mouth only a breath away from Sam's own. They're almost kissing, and it suddenly seems like a Shakespearean tragedy that they aren't, so Sam turns his face up, gets his knees underneath him, and brings their mouths together. 

Dean doesn't yank away this time. Dean doesn't even protest like Sam expects he might; Dean opens his mouth and lets his tongue delve right into Sam's, and Dean tastes sharp and bitter. Sam wonders if he tastes the same. 

Sam is too drunk to close his eyes, or to remember how to kiss with any sort of finesse, and his spit drips down his chin as he tries to emulate Dean; the freckles across Dean's nose are dancing in front of Sam's eyes like sunspots, and his tongue feels too thick in his mouth, clumsy; he raises a hand and finds the curve of Dean's neck, follows it up to his chin, can feel the stubble prick against his palm as he tries to hold Dean in place. 

The problem with this idea, though, is that Sam turns his head at the same time he's keeping Dean there, which slams their noses rather painfully together, though not enough to penetrate the sickly-sweet haze of alcohol and arousal. 

Dean makes a little distressed noise and grabs Sam's fingers, interlaces them with his own and then draws Sam's hand away from his face; Dean's tongue slides expertly amidst his mouth and against his own tongue, sparking heat and electricity all across Sam's skin. 

Sam's so fucking drunk. He hasn't had any dinner and he's had too beers on an empty stomach now, and the more he kisses Dean, the drunker he feels, desperate to get more of Dean, to take this further, to feel bare skin under his fingers. 

He snatches his hand out of Dean's and fumbles with the hem of Dean's t-shirt, shoving it out of the way and managing to get his palm onto the flat of Dean's belly, forgetting to kiss Dean back with the fervour in his blood that the feel of Dean's skin raises in him. 

He settles his palm there for a few seconds, mouth loose on Dean's, their spit intermingled and wet against Sam's chin, and Sam thinks, distantly, that he's a sloppy kisser and maybe not a very good one; then he's got two fingers in Dean's waistband, going for the gold -- that is to say, Dean's cock -- and he knows Dean doesn't always wear underwear and he's anxious to find out if this is one of those days, but before he can get his hand fully into Dean's Levis Dean's grabbing him by the wrist and wrenching his hand away from his skin at the same time he twists his head away from Sam's mouth. 

"Stop," he says hoarsely, but Sam's got two hands, is too drunk to really understand what's going on, drugged by the feel of Dean's skin and the smell of Dean's arousal hanging heavy in the humid air that no amount of artificial air-conditioning can dispel. 

Dean squeezes Sam's wrist so tightly the bones grind together, which pierces through the fog in Sam's brain, wakes him up a little. He freezes, caught by the look on Dean's face. 

"Fuck, Sam," Dean manages to wheeze. "You think I don't mean it?" And Sam shakes his head and discovers his fingers are still questing for Dean's dick. 

He pulls them away like he's been electrocuted, but he can't quite wrap his mind around it; his cock is still screaming at him, his body still thrumming all over, his heart still beating in every pore. 

But Dean's pulling away now, sitting up and wiping the long strand of Sam's saliva away from his lips with the back of his hand, getting to his feet and snagging a bottle of beer off the table. 

"Drink yourself to sleep," Dean says shortly. "Just don't drink yourself into a coma of alcohol poisoning." And then he's got his leather jacket in one hand and the motel room door is slamming shut, all of it happening so fast that Sam can't process it; it's like watching a stop-motion animation. 

One minute Dean's mouth and his flawless golden skin is under Sam's lips. 

The next minute, without there seeming to be anything in between, Dean's gone, and Sam's alone, cock aching furiously, balls so tight and swollen he can barely stand to sit, and his tongue, even, feels the loss keenly. 

He wants nothing more than to come, but this time the last thing he wants is his own hand on his dick. He wants Dean. He wants that palm, large enough that it engulfs his cock completely, even though Sam's not a small boy by any means. 

Sam falls back against the couch cushions, breathing heavily, and wonders what John would do if he could see his younger son now. Wonders why Dean keeps winding him up until he's all but ready to burst and then disappearing on him, if not physically, than emotionally, and the whole thing makes Sam kind of sick to his stomach. 

He knows he's not the only one who feels this way. He knows Dean's there too, in this same sick place. He had a brief second of nirvana where he could feel the heat and shape of Dean's cock against his hand through layers of denim and cotton. 

He wants that back. Suddenly furious, he flies to his feet and buttons his overshirt over the bulge of his dick, throws open the motel room door and stalks into the parking lot, where he catches sight of the Impala's inner lights burning in the darkness. 

He doesn't know how long he sat there in the room, trying to get his body under control, but even the mere thought of Dean makes him unbearably horny, so he traipses over to the Impala, ready to give Dean whatfor and then make Dean lie back and, Christ, Sam doesn't even know; either he's going to blow Dean inexpertly or he's going to force Dean's head down until his dick is in Dean's mouth. One or the other. 

But when he gets closer to the car, he can see that Dean's not alone, so he approaches more cautiously, trying to stay within shadows, until he can make out Dean, his head thrown back, the long column of his neck arched, and Sam's gasping now, unsure whether his eyes are playing tricks on him; maybe Dean's alone and jerking off, in which case, God, Sam wants to _see_. 

And see he does, when he peers through the faintly steamed up windows and manages to identify Madelyn, pretty pink lips against Dean's naked cock, and Sam can't even appreciate that gorgeous cock he's so completely stunned stupid. 

He'd been totally wrong. Dean must have wanted Madelyn all along, and when Sam had thought, even for a few seconds, that Dean had been trying to put her off, it must have been for Sam's benefit all along, to keep Sam from understanding that Dean wanted to screw her. 

Well, fuck that shit. Sam wants to screw _Dean,_ and as he watches her go at it, he's almost filled with enough rage to throw open the door and interrupt, insist that Dean get him off, but, as he looks at them both, he has a better idea. 

He can't very well give away the fact that he wants to fuck Dean to this girl, or to anyone else, for that matter. At least, not yet. 

Then an idea begins to germinate, and Sam tiptoes backwards, filled with an evil sort of glee at his plan. 

If it works, Dean's never going to want to shove him away again, not if Sam can just convince him that Sam wants this more than anything. 

And strangely enough, it calms him, thinking about Dean's reaction. And with that calmness stealing over him, he can think clearly enough to figure out that Dean's sublimating his less-than-acceptable desires in this convenient girl, because it's okay for Dean to screw a chick, even in society's view, but it's not okay for Dean to screw his little brother, and Sam has a suspicion it's not because he's a kid or because they're siblings, but because Dean can't reconcile what he wants with his desperate, all-consuming need to protect Sam. 

Sam grins to himself, lets himself back into the motel room and lies down on Dean's bed, gets comfortable, and unzips his jeans. 

Let Dean walk in on him. This is one time that Sam's pretty sure it'll be quite the dramatic comparison. 

*

Sam falls asleep with his cock still gripped in one hand, jizz cooling on his belly. He doesn't hear Dean come back in. 

*

Dean is kicking himself. Literally, if Dean could kick his own ass, he totally would. What the fuck was he thinking? It's not like Sammy's unwilling, and it's not like he doesn't want to take what Sam's offering, desperately in fact. 

But for some reason every time he comes close to letting go, he finds something inside him recoiling, repulsed by the idea that he could do such a thing to _Sam_ , because holy Christ, if anyone _else_ tried to put a finger on Sam Dean'd have that person at gunpoint so fast his head would spin. Sammy's not for using, not that way. 

And not only that, but he fucking _slapped_ Sam. Fuck, where is his head lately? He's still breathing hard from Madelyn's blow job, pulse still racing, but while all he can think about is Sam, all he can do is castigate himself for being a fucking _prick._

Getting Sam drunk had been to do exactly what Sam had thought it'd been to do. Getting himself drunk, too; he'd thought it would be easier to give in if they were both sauced, but instead he just found his gorge rising at the idea that he could take advantage of Sam, most especially when Sam was warm against him, hotly drunk, skin smelling like alcohol and sweat, mouth tasting of beer, and Dean had realised that what he was doing was going about it all wrong. 

Worse than that, even, was now Madelyn thought they had something, Dean was sure of it. He'd never be able to discourage her now, and more than likely she was going to go into school tomorrow and prattle to all her friends -- and especially her enemies and rivals -- about how she'd got the hot college guy, gotten to screw him in the backseat of his wicked ride, and at that thought Dean hates himself a little bit more every step closer he gets to the motel room door. 

Sam's in there, and Sam's bound to be confused and frustrated, because he has no idea what Dean's thinking -- makes sense, because _Dean_ has no idea what he's thinking, either. In fact, Dean kind of wants to crack open his skull and hope some sense falls out. 

He thinks about Madelyn again, and winds up falling to his knees in the underbrush and retching, heaving, stomach contracting painfully, but nothing comes up. He can't even do that right. 

He knows he has to get back inside the motel room, check on Sammy, make sure his little brother _didn't_ drink himself into such a stupor as to be suffering alcohol poisoning -- John would kill them both. 

Dean would kill himself first, though, before John ever got the chance, if that happened. 

By the time Dean manages to fumble the door open, he can hear the regular soft hiss of Sam's breathing, indicating Sam is asleep, and when he stumbles into the room, there's still only two empty beer bottles, and Sam is asleep on his bed, one hand fallen open over his naked cock, and coming closer, there's a gleam from the television off of Sam's stomach. 

So. While Dean was getting head, Sam was jacking off, because Dean is a stupid fucking prick who apparently has no sense and no concept of the reach-around, as it were. 

He wants to lie down half on top of Sam and let Sam's dried come itch his bare skin. He wants to kiss that adorably exposed ear from the way Sam's on his back with his head turned towards the door. 

And he wants to feel Sam's hands on him, more than anything, but after the way he's behaved, he's pretty sure he wouldn't deserve it, could never make it up to Sam. 

He steps into the room even further, shuts the door as quietly as he can, and toes out of his boots. 

He feels another pang of guilt, can only hope Sam doesn't know what went down after he left the room, can only hope that Madelyn's friends don't spread it all over school so that it gets back to Sam, because that would be disaster. 

Which he really should have thought of before he'd let her put her mouth on him, but, Dean thinks, it's not the first time he's done something monumentally stupid, with the bruises and scars to show for it, and now Dean wonders which this'll be. 

Sam's oblivious to anything around him, so Dean gives in to his baser desires a little, makes a concession to himself, and bends down, fastens his lips just under Sam's earlobe, where his hair usually covers, and sucks hard, makes a little bow-shaped bruise on Sam's skin, leaves it there for Sam to find come morning. 

It doesn't make any sense, of course, because denying everything and then purposefully leaving evidence is contradictory in the extreme, but Dean's long ago given up trying to make his own actions, where Sam is concerned, show any kind of sense. 

He strips out of his clothes, right down to the skin, and rummages around the belongings scattered through the room until he finds a pair of boxers he's pretty sure are Sam's; he smells them cautiously and when they don't knock him unconscious he slips them up over his hips, taking a moment to look in the mirror and groan, because the boxers are tight across, and that's a pretty good indication he's been eating too many cheeseburgers again. 

He flips his gaze back to Sam, those lean sexy angles, and wishes he were that beautiful, that easily and unconcernedly lovely, even though he often gets the feeling that no-one else appreciates what Sam's hiding beneath all those layers. 

Casting his eyes back at the mirror, he sucks in a breath and watches the way it gives his abs definition, wishes he had Sam's physique, that easily slender build with the broad shoulders filling out already, and God, but what a stunner Sam's going to be once he's completely grown. 

The thought makes Dean's breath catch in his chest. 

In the mirror, Dean's scowling, and he makes up his mind to do some extra training tomorrow while Sam's asleep, try to lose some of the weight he's carrying that he doesn't need; resolves not to eat as much sausage and bacon for breakfast, finds his eyes snagging on Sam's reflection in the mirror. 

His little brother obviously doesn't feel at home in his own skin, and that's Dean's fault, because Dean raised him and Dean should've taught Sam by now that the best way to make yourself attractive was to exude self-confidence, even if you had to fake it. 

If Sam had half the faux confidence Dean has, the girls -- and guys, too -- would be all over him and they'd totally forget about Dean in an instant. 

Dean finds himself feeling a little sick at the thought, stomach shrivelling up, a little hard knot of anxiety. It comes to him in a flash that he doesn't want anyone to touch Sam, because he wants Sam to be his. 

And then he remembers that he's not willing to take that for himself, which means at some point he's going to have to let go of the jealousy and let Sam move on. 

The thought depresses him horribly, and he sits down on the bed with a muffled thump. 

He doesn't sleep for hours for staring at Sam in the purplish darkness, the television still tuned to a news station, volume low. Sam eventually rolls so that his back is to Dean, and it's at that point that he can't stand it any more; he gets up and slides into bed behind Sam, reaches around and his hand bumps into Sam's cock. 

Sam's stiff against his fingers, cock brilliantly hot, and Dean snatches his hand away, but then forces himself to tuck Sam back into his underwear and then he zips up Sam's jeans, the sound of the metal teeth loud in the quiet room. 

He falls asleep to the comforting rhythm of Sam's breath and his spine against Dean's chest. 

At four-thirty in the morning he creeps back out of bed and goes running, grinding his body into submission with physical exertion. 

When he gets back to the room, he finishes off the bottle of tequila he'd bought, chasing it with a beer and settling back onto what used to be Sam's bed, starting to undress for a shower. He knows that by the time Sam wakes up, Sam's never going to know they spent the night in the same bed -- which is as it should be. 

The thing is, though, Sam was sleeping in Dean's bed, and Dean couldn't let him sleep in the bed closest to the door alone. 

In the end, though, Dean doesn't mean to pass out; plastered from the liquor earlier and the drinking he'd done after running, Dean winds up completely oblivious to the world around him for another three hours. 

*

Sam is more than a little bit used to oversleeping unless Dean is around to make sure he gets up in time for school, which is why it's so very strange to wake up early, around six-thirty, and toss and turn in his bed until he discovers the reason behind why he can't sleep. 

Dean's not in bed with him, which he would have expected considering he's sleeping in Dean's bed -- Dean being too obsessive-compulsive to let anyone else sleep nearest to the door. Sam pops up in bed like toast, ready to tear out of the room looking for his brother, when his eyes alight on Dean's muscular frame, flopped backwards on the other bed. 

Dean's plainly still plastered, from the asthmatic wheeze of his breath and the way his skin looks slightly clammy. Too, Dean's half-undressed, like he was getting ready for a shower but never quite made it to the bathroom. 

That or he was planning on wanking it. Sam's pretty sure which it was, and which he'd rather it could have been. 

Now, though, Dean's lower body is partially bare, his cock soft and nestled between his legs, and Sam can't help thinking how _vulnerable_ Dean looks, with his pants open and his mouth open and a bottle of beer abandoned next to him on the bed. 

He figures that if he were more a vengeful type of person he'd probably want to hurt Dean, to bruise his tender balls, his cock; the memory of Madelyn's moist-looking mouth over Dean is enough to make Sam's heart thump painfully against his breastbone. 

Then again, Sam can think of a lot of things he'd rather do to that exposed flesh than hurt it. He crawls over to the edge of the queen bed, sets his feet on the floor and waits for the room to stop spinning. His head starts up a pounding rhythm in time with his heart, and Sam is frustrated; he didn't drink that much, so a hangover seems totally unfair. 

After a couple of minutes, though, the headache subsides a bit and he stands up before crossing over to the other bed, kneeling on it slowly and carefully, but Dean doesn't even shift. 

Sam puts out a hand, lets his fingers just barely graze the velvety soft skin of Dean's dick, utterly captivated with it, the way it looks; it might not be as interesting as if Dean were hard, but this might be his only chance, the way that Dean's been acting, and he wants to make the most of it. 

Which is why his lips sort of naturally follow his fingertips, falling against Dean's skin with all of the lightness of faint rain-drops, and he's kissing it, so gently, afraid to move, even as his breath disturbs the thatch of curls at the base of Dean's dick. 

He waits for Dean to wake up and start shouting, or for Dean to get hard, but neither happens; disappointed, Sam raises his head and sneaks carefully back off the bed again. 

He finds the bottle of aspirin and takes two for his headache, wondering as he does so just how bad Dean's hangover is going to be, and whether Dean will remember anything of what happened in Sam's bed. 

Sam, struck by something all at once, tiptoes back over to the bed and manages, with some difficulty, to pull the sheets over Dean so that his brother won't know Sam saw him like that. 

Sam retreats to the shower, but not before he brings his fingers to his lips, remembering the intoxicating way Dean's skin felt against them. 

When he gets out of the shower, combing back his wet hair while looking in the mirror, Sam finds the small faint bruise by his ear, and feels something deep within him start to unfurl. 

*

Madelyn has told the entire world. 

Sam can't even hold his head up, because she's crowed to everyone who will listen that the fucking smoulderingly hot college guy has chosen _her_ to hook up with. 

Ordinarily she'd be tarred with the label of slut for such a thing, except that Dean's so hot and in such high demand that everyone wants him, and everyone is instantly jealous of Madelyn. 

It makes Sam half-crazy; he wants to shout at them all to stop treating Dean like a prize to be won, even though he knows Dean would find the whole thing both ridiculously silly and yet flattering at the same time. 

He wants to tell them, too, that Dean's his older brother, but he knows better. If he did that, he'd never be able to get close to Dean again while they were in this town, much less put his plan into action. 

He does hear whispers, though, little huddles of students that quiet into obscene, ringing silence as soon as he walks up, and it doesn't take much to figure out what's happened. 

Not only has Madelyn told the entire world that Dean's fucked her -- well, she says that, even though Sam knows it didn't go that far -- but she's apparently also told everyone that she saw them kissing, because it's quite a coup to have followed after Sam and basically stolen Dean away. 

Sam wonders why no-one seems to pick up on the idea that maybe this makes Dean kind of a whore, willing to play the field. Wonders why Madelyn thinks she's so lucky, when any second Dean could totally find someone else. 

He doesn't allow himself to think on the fact that that could just as easily apply to _him_ , too. 

One thing that does happen, though, is that Dean is quite obviously and startling absent from the football field after school, which dampens Madelyn's spirits somewhat. 

Sam gets the impression that Dean's had to stay away because he doesn't want to see her, which makes his heart do a little trill of victory, fills Sam up with something nameless yet warm and slow like honey. 

He excuses himself from Gareth, Jackson and Avery as soon as he can and walks down to the little mart in town. 

And then remembers that he can't be seen by anyone he knows, so he counts out the change in his pocket and takes the bus to the next town over. 

By the time he gets back to the motel, the Impala's parked in the lot and he can see through the aged and faded curtains that the lights are on. 

He winds up in the slight cover of the trees by the room, changing his clothes. He has to be quick and he has to be as unnoticeable as possible, so he hurries up and shimmies out of his jeans and underwear. 

By the time he knocks on the door to their room, he's already looked around three or four times to make sure he's not seen, then very carefully he leans against the door frame, so that when Dean opens the door, Sam is lounging against it, the light from the room loving every inch of his exposed skin. 

And there's a lot of it. 

*

Sam's dressed like an underage hooker, for Christ's sake. He's got on a shirt that's unbuttoned and jeans so tight it looks like he's been poured into them, and the jeans are so low-rise that the very bottom of Sam's newly grown treasure trail is showing. 

Dean can't decide if he wants to throw up or throw him onto the bed and ravish him until he looks completely fucked-out and absolutely wonderful. 

Sam doesn't look vulnerable or uncomfortable, though, and Dean's words from a couple mornings ago come back to haunt him, the word _whore_ in particular, and now Sam looks the part. 

Dean doesn't know if it's an admonishment or an enticement, but either way, all he wants to do is find out if Sam's got anything on underneath those jeans; wants to taste lips that look shiny like honey and surely taste just as good. 

And that's when Sam opens his mouth. 

"Aren't ya gonna let me in?" he says in a drawl, and Dean backs up a few paces. Sam struts into the room and Dean's eyes follow every single last movement, from the way his thighs move in the jeans to the supple sway of his hips to the ripple of his belly muscles as his shirt gapes open in front. 

"Have you lost your mind?" 

Sam smiles, lazily and sweet, dimples cutting into his cheeks and teeth flashing. His nostrils flare. 

"No, Dean, I found out what I wanted and the best way to get it. Fifty bucks for an hour, two hundred for the night, anything you want." 

Dean's not certain Sam's even _heard_ of some of the kinks Dean's tried before, to make an offer like that. But before he can even make a decision, Sam's in his arms, a warm armful that fits perfectly in place, lips slotted into Dean's when he tries to speak, and Dean finally gets a clue. 

It's just hurting them both to keep pretending, so he kisses back, and Sam is flavoured of peppermint, not alcohol; he's lean and angular and his mouth fits to Dean's like they were both cut from the same mould. 

Sam is sober, which means Dean can kiss him, and Sam is faking a hooker, which takes the responsibility off of Dean to protect him, and yeah, that shouldn't actually work, but somehow, kissing Sam like this, it does. Dean doesn't let himself examine that too closely. 

And when he pulls back, he slowly touches those perfectly bowed lips, red like berries and puffy under his fingertip, and smiles. 

"All right, Sammy," he says. "You win. But we're still gonna take this slow." 

"All the time in the world," Sam replies, and walks backward, one hand fisted in Dean's tee, drawing him forward. 

He sits down on the bed, then sprawls backwards, legs falling open, and Dean understands the invitation in the most primal part of his consciousness, falls on Sam, right in between those thighs, and takes his lips in another kiss. 

Sam, willing and incomprehensible, splayed out for whatever Dean wants, is the most luscious thing Dean's ever seen. 

He almost lets Sam flatten his palm over the bulge in his jeans, but he doesn't let it go any farther than that, kissing and vague groping of Sam's cock. 

And Sam, sweet, tasty, beautiful Sam brings him off in his jeans, just from being so pliant and thrilling to touch. Dean is so shocked -- that hasn't happened since he was a horny teen-ager Sam's age -- that he can barely catch his breath enough to make sure that Sam follows after. 

But Sam is used to this after a lifetime of following Dean in everything he does, used to mimicking his big brother, and comes in his own pants. 

Dean falls asleep half on top of Sam, his breathing still unsteady and whistling in and out of his lungs. 

*

Sam wakes up to the sound of Dean's voice, his brother on the phone, and after a moment of disorientation, discovers that it's after ten in the morning and Dean is using his John-voice to tell Sam's school that he's sick. 

Sam's not sick. Sam is _wonderful_. His jeans are stuck to his cock, crusted over inside, but he doesn't care, because his plan did exactly what he'd hoped it would. 

And then Sam smiles against the pillow. Dean promised to stop acting like what they had wasn't there. 

Dean hangs up the cell phone and comes over to the bed. "I'm thinkin' Saturday, we ought to go out shooting, and then to a movie if you like." 

"'S that like a date?" Sam mumbles, yawning and grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. 

"You want it to be a date, kiddo, it's a date." Dean ruffles his hair. "And I'll even take ya to school tomorrow. That oughta cause quite the stir." 

"What for, Dean?" Sam looks up at him, and his knees pop, and automatically start to throb. "Ow," he says, and figures he must not be done growing yet. 

"Because the kids at school will never be able to treat you like shit again if they know we're goin' together." 

"Dean, this isn't _Grease_ ," Sam points out. He sits up in bed, hair sticking to his face from sweating into the pillow. 

"I know, but I just think." Dean pauses. "I think it'll help you if people realise you've got what it takes to make me settle down. I know what the kids at your school think of me, Sam. I know all the girls have got it bad, and some of the guys too. Was kinda fun windin' 'em all up, but enough's enough." 

"So, just like that, you're my boyfriend?" 

"I don't do 'boyfriend' much," Dean muses, "but yeah, for now, I guess that's what you can call me." 

"And no more blow jobs from random high school chicks in the back seat of the Impala?" 

Dean has the good grace to blush, even the tips of his ears going red. "No, no more of that, Sammy. You have my word. Was a stupid thing to do, anyway." 

"Dude," Sam says. "This is weird." 

"C'mon, outta bed. We got shooting practise, and then maybe I'll let you laze around in bed all day." 

"Only if you laze around with me," Sam comments slyly, and Dean grins, winks. 

He hops out of bed and makes a beeline for the shower, and while in there, Dean comes in and unzips his jeans. 

Sam listens hard, hoping for the sound of skin on skin, but gets nothing but the patter of the shower-spray and the extremely faint cadence of Dean's breathing. 

*

In spite of everything, Dean still can't quite completely turn off his protective instinct. Like, for instance, when Sam gets out of the Impala in front of his school, looking for all the world like the happiest person alive, his hair still mussed from that morning -- when Dean kissed him in bed, one hand on his belly, Sam's body singing for him, his neck arched, his knees open. So much for Sam's shower. He's not sure his little brother cares. 

Okay, yeah, so it's good sometimes to be Sam's brother, or to take his cue from Sam. 

In any event, he sees the way some of the girls look at Sam, and he wants to get out of the Impala himself and start knocking some heads together. Those girls have no idea that they can't hold a candle to Sam. No idea that what he might give them will never even approach the intensity of what he can give Sam. 

It's more than a little terrifying, the realisation that he probably couldn't breathe without Sam, that even though he knows what he's doing is so very sickeningly wrong, he still can't help himself. 

And he sits in the front seat, watches Sam all the way until Sam's nothing more than a vague shadow through the glass doors, and even then, he can't quite bring himself to drive away. 

God, he's such a dumbass. He's going to have to find a way to put a stop to this. 

He forcibly shoves away the thought of how Sam looked, tousled in his bed, tee ruthlessly pushed up his belly, and tells himself that the only reason he's going along with this is so that Sam will have an edge over the kids. 

So that Sam can have the bragging rights he so desperately needs to bolster his self-confidence. 

So that Sam, attracting the attention of someone like Dean, might start to believe in himself -- that he's gorgeous, and worth hanging around with. Worth making out with. 

Dean starts the Impala, and just before he drives away, he spies Madelyn in the corner in front of the doors, smoking a cigarette and staring hard at Dean's car. 

He begins to feel more than a little uneasy, but brushes it away.


	5. Leaving too soon

**Leaving too soon [part four]**

Dean's been smoking again. It's the first thing Sam notices when he slides into the car, huge smile in place at Dean's beautiful, stupid grin of his own that Sam's not even sure Dean realises tends to sprawl across his face whenever he sees Sam; impossible not to smile when Dean is. 

Impossible not to feel the flutter of something hot and urgent in the pit of his belly, and Sam's positive that he's not the only one who feels that way. 

Dean's leather jacket reeks of it, and the Impala does too, but Sam just keeps on smiling, wants to lean across the seat and kiss Dean, but they're still in full-view of his school and he knows better. Kissing Dean could get them both into heaps of trouble, so instead he slouches down into the seat, picking at loose threads at the knee of his jeans. 

"Dean," he starts, smile fading as he remembers how his day went. Not good. Not even the warm glow of knowing Dean was waiting for him when he got out of school was enough to gloss an impenetrable veneer over how things had gone that day. 

"What's up, Sammy?" Dean asks, snapping a piece of gum no doubt designed to mask the smell of the cigarettes. Sam wonders how many he's smoked today, and how long ago. 

He even briefly wonders if Dean would let him try one -- then shakes his head. No fucking way, most likely. Dean seems to think it's okay for him to have vices, but God forbid his baby brother have any. 

Sam doesn't mention the somewhat shameful fact of compulsively masturbating as a vice. 

"I had gym class for the first time," Sam mumbles miserably. Dean shoots him a glance as he turns onto the street where their motel is located. 

"Did the other kids give you a hard time? You didn't, like, show off or something, did you?" 

"God, of _course_ not," Sam says. "No, I had to shower up after class." 

"Sam," Dean says, a stupid warning twinkle in his eye, "did you drop the soap?" 

"Dean! Try to be a little bit more sympathetic!" 

"All right, all right, I am the picture of a sympathetic ear. What happened?" 

"You never said that--" 

Dean interrupts, because, big brother that he is, he probably can't contain himself. "Is this a 'Sam tells Dean he has an inadequate cock size' story?" 

"Oh, for fuck's -- no. Actually I surpassed most of the other guys. No, Dean," and Sam's voice falls to a whisper without him even meaning to, "I got hard." 

Dean parks the Impala, turns it off, and settles for staring at Sam with all of the intensity of some wild animal looking at its lunch. Sam feels kind of like he might just be that lunch. 

"Sam, you do realise that--" Dean stops. "No, that will take too long. I will sum up." 

"Not the time, Dean," Sam scowls murderously, trying to call a halt to a contest of movie quotes. Dean looks disappointed, but he lets it go. 

"Sammy, listen, you're going through puberty, it's natural to get erections when you least expect it." 

Sam is really quite proud of Dean for not collapsing into giggles, though he plainly wants to. Dean's never really liked being a responsible adult -- it's one of the reasons Sam's half in love with the guy. 

"In a shower full of naked dudes? That may be normal, Dean, but it's also social suicide. I can only pray none of them noticed." Sam's not harbouring many illusions about that, though; teen-age boys live to make other teen-age boys' lives miserable. They would have been looking for any opportunity, especially after Sam arrived in a sleek black muscle car that everyone knows belongs to Dean. 

"I'm sure no-one was looking at your dick, Sam," Dean says uncomfortably and none too convincingly. 

"Yeah? I stole peeks at all of theirs -- and newsflash, Dean, none of _them_ were hard." Sam sinks even lower in the seat. 

"I don't know what to tell you, Sammy-boy," Dean says, turning up the wattage on his best smile. "Maybe they'll all just assume it's because you were thinking of me." 

"Dean, I know what we said, I know we agreed that I'd act as if we were going together, but being gay, that's beyond the pale. I mean, I could get away with dating one guy. I will never be able to live down the idea that I get -- _interested_ \-- in a roomful of naked jocks." 

"Sam, I'm not kidding, that's happened to every single teen-age guy ever. And every single one has the reaction you're having. Dude, it happened to me when I was your age. It's mortifying but you learn to move past it." 

"But, Dean, what if it's true? What if I'm gay?" 

"Then you're gay," Dean says bracingly. "It doesn't change anything else about you, Sam, so stop worrying about it. If you're gonna get interested in girls, it'll happen." 

Sam doesn't point out that he's not likely to get interested in _anyone_ as long as he has Dean around to make him a seething ball of sexually repressed energy. 

He doesn't know, yet, that the time will come when he thinks he might marry a girl, Dean as much forgotten as Sam can manage. 

*

Dean won't make out in the back of the movie theatre. Sam, disappointed, tries to concentrate on the movie, but he can't help but think that maybe Dean is deliberately trying to inject some distance between them again, which makes Sam feel both furious and helpless. 

There's not much more that he can do to convince Dean that this is what he wants, that he won't be happy without it. He's not sure if it's because he's still only fourteen, if Dean is afraid to let himself want this in case Sam decides he doesn't want it any more by the time he's fifteen, but there's no way to reassure Dean, save playing the waiting game. 

"Dean," Sam whispers. "C'mon, Dean, the movie isn't any good. Please--" 

"Sam, shut up," Dean hisses back. Sam bristles. Leave it to Dean to be his usual abrasive self, even when they're alone. 

Well, not alone so much as separated from the toothy morass known as high school. 

"I need the toilet," Sam says finally. "I'll see you in a few minutes." He gets up and sidles past everyone in the row, which isn't many people, actually, and feels a little guilty about obstructing the view of the people behind them. 

He doesn't head for the restrooms, though; he heads for the entrance instead. A little air might clear his head a little, make it easier to think. A little distance from Dean, too, might make it easier for his brain to function, once deprived from the very thing that causes it to stumble under the weight of his attraction to Dean. 

Unfortunately, Jackson Price is standing in front of the movie theatre, smoking a cigarette. His eyes light up when he sees Sam, and Sam can feel his shoulders go up, readies himself for an attack. 

It comes, but not in the way he was expecting, nor is it the _type_ of attack he was expecting. 

"Hey, Winchester," Jackson says. "Movie not good?" He walks over to Sam, so close that in the slightly cool night air he can see Jackson's cigarette smoke in his own personal space when he exhales. 

"It's fine," Sam says. He backs up and walks right into the wall. Something about Jackson is making him really uneasy. 

"I wondered if you'd be out tonight. Wondered if you'd be with _him_." 

Sam's hackles rise. He also should have expected to be brought to task about Dean; should have prepared himself for the inevitable that would come from letting himself be seen with Dean out in public. 

"It's just a movie, Jackson." 

"The last movie I went to? I took my -- well, let's just say she didn't get to enjoy very much of the movie." 

"That's nice for her, I guess," Sam says, trying not to engage him in conversation. 

"You smoke, Winchester?" Jackson holds out the cigarette between two fingers; an offering. It's not lost on Sam that he'd be smoking the same one. That Jackson has always been the one to sniff around Dean like he might be _interested._

Like maybe _Jackson's_ gay. Sam wonders if this is a come-on. 

"I don't, so no thank you," Sam says, trying to creep out of Jackson's shadow. 

"C'mon, _Sammy_ ," Jackson says. "Take a drag. Your _boyfriend'll_ probably think it's hot. He smokes; I've seen him." 

Sam kinda hopes that never gets back to John, the same way he hopes what he does next never gets back to Dean. He opens his mouth and lets Jackson put the cigarette between his lips, then takes a shallow inhale. 

He doesn't actually cough until he cries, but it's a near thing; he's only saved from it by the fact that he's seen enough movies to know what happens to most people when they take their first deep drag on a cigarette. 

Jackson withdraws the cigarette but doesn't back up. He's close enough to kiss -- Sam hopes he doesn't get any ideas. 

"Listen, Jackson, he's not--" 

"You can tell me," Jackson says. "I won't let anyone know your little secret." 

Somehow, Sam doubts that. High school is basically a competition to see how many of your rival's secrets you can spill all over school, and Sam has a pretty good idea now what's going down. 

Jackson doesn't want _Sam_. 

"You'll forgive me if--" 

Jackson cuts him off yet again, this time the interruption coming in the form of his lips. 

Sam's read a couple of trashy romance novels when he and Dean were trapped in an abandoned house with nothing else to do, so he remembers how the heroine, when kissed by anyone other than the hero, is usually repulsed by his bad breath and slack lips. 

Jackson's not that bad to kiss. His lips are warm and dry, and he tilts his head just right, and it would probably feel good if not for the fact that Sam really only wants to be kissing Dean right now. 

He turns his head and causes the kiss to snap like the threads of a bubble from bubble-gum. 

"I'm not gay," he says, but Jackson grabs his face and turns him back to look into his eyes. Sam can't read their depths, but he doesn't need to; Jackson's probably hoping Dean will come looking for him, catch them in the act, and dump Sam. 

Sam's been around the block a few times, after all. 

He barely manages to stop himself from extricating himself from the situation with a well-placed left hook. But he does duck down, and push away from the wall, forcing Jackson to drop his arm. 

He walks straight into Dean. 

Dean's expression could most aptly be described as 'thunderous'. 

Sam's going to be in for a world of hurt, is probably what Jackson thinks. 

Little does he know. 

Dean doesn't even ask if Sam's all right, he just turns to Jackson. "You do know that forcing yourself on someone else is a crime, right?" 

Jackson blanches, takes a few steps back. "I'm sorry, but h-he asked--" 

"That's not likely, is it?" 

Sam interjects. "Dean, listen--" 

"Shut up, Sam," Dean says. "I'm cutting this little weed down to size." 

Jackson winces again, clearly unhappy about the turn things have taken. 

Then Dean turns to Sam, one eyebrow raised, the little imperfect arch only he can do. "Have you been smoking?" 

"No--" Sam starts, but Jackson sees his opportunity. 

"You wouldn't believe how much he begged me for a cigarette," he says, and Dean's other eyebrow goes up. 

And then he grabs Sam's arm, pulls him away from the other kid, drags him all the way back to the Impala. 

They wind up driving to the school, where Dean frog-marches Sam all the way to the football field and beneath the bleachers before stopping, both of them breathing heavy, and shoving him up against the underside of the seats, kissing him until both of their mouths feel bruised. 

"Don't you fucking start smoking," Dean says, then kisses Sam again, biting the taste of the nicotine out of Sam's mouth. He pulls back, steps away, starts to pace. "I don't know, Christ, I don't know," he mumbles, and Sam makes to move closer, but Dean puts up a hand. 

"Dean--" Sam tries, but his brother's expression makes the words shrivel up in his throat. 

"I don't know. Sammy, look, I said being gay wasn't a bad thing, and it's not. But if that's what this is, if you _are_ and you're just using me to experiment on, that's not kosher, dude. I shouldn't be doing this at all. I'm only doing it -- against what better judgement I might have, by the way -- because I thought it's what you wanted." 

"It _is_ what I want, Dean." 

"Is it? What was that, Sam? You like that kid?" 

"Not enough to want him to kiss me," Sam says indignantly. "God, Dean." 

"But you do like him?" Dean presses. Sam starts to see where this is going. He ignores Dean's body language, prickly and unapproachable, and walks up to his brother, reaches up and draws his head down with his hand on the back of Dean's neck. Seeks out warm, tender lips that are much more arousing to him than anyone else's. 

Dean accepts the kiss, some of the tension even ebbing out of his body, but he eventually disentangles himself. "Sammy," he breathes, before one hand slides down Sam's belly, pausing just above Sam's stiff cock, before dropping heavy and hot over Sam's clothed erection. 

Sam gasps, goes up on his tiptoes and presses into the touch; when he tries to reciprocate, though, Dean shoves his hand away, breaks the kiss. 

"Sam, I'll get you off, but I'd -- I'd rather you didn't touch me," he says. "I don't really like it when you touch me." 

Sam wants to call Dean on his bullshit, but he can't speak, can barely even remember how to do something automatic and instinctive like breathing, due to Dean's masterful stroking of his cock. 

Not for the first time, with what few brain cells are disengaged from his cock, Sam wonders if Dean has done this before with anyone else. 

As Dean moves his hand up and over Sam's cock, Sam thinks back to that day when he'd woken up still slightly drunk, the way Dean's body felt to Sam, and wants to throw it in Dean's face, especially after what happens next: 

He comes with a shuddering cry, surprising himself and probably Dean, also; he tries, again, to cup Dean's cock, but Dean backs up, one hand swiping the back of his mouth. 

He wants to tell Dean that it doesn't make any difference now if Dean were to let him touch it, because he already has; he's desperate to repeat the experience, but he doesn't want to know how Dean would react to the news. 

He doesn't want to believe that Dean doesn't want this, but he can't help but question it; can't help but remember how every single time Dean's given into him it's been because Sam forced the issue. 

Sam wonders if he'll have to force the issue to take things any farther. 

He wonders if he might. 

*

Dean's had doubts before, of course he has. But this is the first concrete example he's had that maybe Sam's just confused, going through a phase where he thinks he's in love with the one person forbidden to him. 

It's human nature to fall in love with what you can't have, as _Romeo & Juliet_ will attest, but Dean also knows that Sam could have anyone else, because John wouldn't care. 

Well, no, it's more that he wouldn't _notice_ , which means if Sam's in it for the thrill of the forbidden, fucking Dean would give it to him. 

And maybe, now, Sam's discovered he likes this other kid just as much as Dean, which means it's time for Dean to bow out gracefully, to remove himself as an obstacle so that Sam can get on with growing up, with developing normally. 

Dean wants Sam, he can't deny that, not now in the darkness, Sam pressed to his side, breathing over his bare skin. He wants Sam, but what he wants more than that is for Sam to have whatever _he_ wants, and if that's not Dean, not any more, then Dean doesn't have much of a choice, does he? 

He rolls away from Sam, putting a few precious inches between them, immediately cold from the lack of Sam's breath, his heat. 

It's Sunday, or will be very soon, which means it's Sam's birthday. 

Sam's fifteen years old. Dean feels a curious little catch in his chest at the thought -- he'd forgotten just how _young_ Sam is. 

Had forgotten that the honeypot he'd been dipping into was not only his little brother, not only jailbait, but _four fucking years younger_ than he is. 

What, in God's name, was he thinking? 

*

Sam wakes on May second, in Dean's bed, with a smile on his face. It's his birthday, and Dean's promised to take him to IHOP for breakfast. The smile quickly vanishes, though, when he realises he's alone in the bed -- Dean's missing. 

And then he remembers that even though Dean jerked him off under the bleachers, he's clearly back to tormenting them both with his indecision. 

Sam doesn't want to be the one to initiate everything, but there's not much he can do when Dean is being so goddamn obtuse. 

Not much he can do to remind Dean that he's not like other kids; Sam's old enough to make a few decisions for himself. Old enough to decide who to date and why. 

And when. 

Dean walks back into the room with a toothbrush between his perfect lips, which makes Sam think obscene thoughts about being on the receiving end of his very first blow job, although from the way things are between them currently that isn't looking very likely. 

"You should get up," Dean says through a mouthful of toothpaste that Sam kinda wishes -- okay, more than kind of -- was actually his jizz. 

Goddammit. He needs to stop thinking that way. It's a sure route to disappointment. 

"I'm enjoying waking up in your bed," Sam says, quirking his lips. Dean looks away. 

"C'mon, Sam, I'm serious; you slept way past when we should've gotten up and--" 

"It's a pancake restaurant, Dean. I doubt they stop serving breakfast at eight in the morning." 

"Just get the fuck up and shower," Dean says, and Sam sits up, shocked. He wasn't expecting that much vitriol. 

"All right, jerk," he says, jumps out of the bed they'd shared last night. 

"Happy birthday, bitch," Dean replies, and Sam feels something warm uncoil in the vicinity of his chest cavity. 

He takes the fastest shower known to man, doesn't even stop to jerk off, and he's ready for breakfast, hair still dripping, by eight thirty. 

Dean's already in the car, and Sam smiles, turns his face up to the sunlight. He's determined to have the best birthday he can manage, even without his father there and with Dean acting like someone bit his dick off the night before. 

*

"You want the chocolate chip pancakes?" Dean asks, turning his menu to face Sam. Sam, for his part, has been staring at it for the past several minutes, unable to think about anything but Dean, a few dollops of whipped cream, and maybe even a blindfold. If Dean would consent to it. 

Sam really hopes someday Dean will consent to it. He looks up at Dean. "Huh?" 

"Get the chocolate chip, daydreamer," Dean says. "It's probably your only chance to have chocolate chip pancakes." 

That much is true; Sam's not likely to get to go to IHOP again. 

In the end, he orders them mostly because Dean suggested it, and while eating them, has a sudden idea. 

It's possible if he's enough of a tease Dean will just fold and give in because he won't be able to handle it any more. 

"Hey, Dean, can we play a game later tonight?" Sam knows that Sundays are for training when Dad's gone, because John likes them to keep sharp, and the only time Sunday is a day of relaxation is if John's not on a hunt himself. 

Dean glances up from his multiple plates of food. He's shovelling it into his mouth so fast Sam doesn't know how he doesn't get indigestion, but then, that's Dean for you. 

"What kinda game?" Dean asks, looking vaguely curious. Sam has to work very hard to keep the impish smile off his face; that would be a dead give-away. 

"I was thinkin' Yahtzee, Dean, we haven't played that in forever." 

"Because you suck at strategy," Dean says darkly. 

"You're only saying that because you're bitchy that I always seem to beat you, even though you're older." 

"Sammy, if you're gonna play a game of luck, you should at least--" 

"I'd rather play something that's _actually_ a game to me, Dean. Not like poker, or pool, which is more like work because of the payout later." 

"I don't think it's work," Dean says petulantly. Sam sighs. 

"That's because you're good at it. I'm good at Yahtzee," Sam points out. "C'mon, Dean, please? It's my favourite game." 

"Do we even still have a copy of it?" Dean asks, and it's plain he's hoping they don't. 

What Dean doesn't know is that Sam has a diabolical plan when it comes to playing. He lets a little bit of the grin he's feeling sneak across his face. Dean immediately looks suspicious, but then, it's Sam's birthday, so Dean's probably not actually gonna turn him down, he just has to make his token protest. 

"Yeah, we do," Sam says. "I rescued it before we bailed out of the last apartment we actually had. I'm pretty sure Dad wanted to leave it behind, so it's stashed in my duffle." 

"All right, Sammy, fine, whatever you want," Dean says, and returns to stuffing his face. 

Suddenly Sam is too keyed up to eat. 

*

Training goes well, but Sam can barely concentrate for the thought of Dean's hands on him, which means he loses every informal competition between them, more's the pity. 

They get back to the motel room and once again Dean tries to make sure that no-one's seen them going in together, and then Sam digs out the Yahtzee game. 

The evil grin he's been stifling all day finally gets to come out and play, because it's time to spring his idea on Dean. 

"Strip Yahtzee," he says triumphantly, and Dean looks immediately worried. 

"How exactly does that even work?" he says doubtfully. Sam smiles wider, sets up the game, tosses the dice to see who goes first. Eighteen. 

"Roll," he says, and Dean gives him a sidelong look. "You get Yahtzee, you get to tell me to take off a large article of clothing, like my shirt. I get it, I get to do the same. And if you get a large straight, you can tell me to take off a small article of clothing." 

"So we're playing triple then?" Dean asks, as he rolls. Twenty-two. Sam doesn't even bother to glower that Dean gets to go first. 

"Yeah," Sam says. "Your turn." 

"And I can make you take off whatever I want?" Dean inquires. Almost like he doesn't care; but Sam can see sweat starting to appear at Dean's temples. 

"Anything," Sam says. "The only caveat is what you do with me after." _And I hope it involves ravishing me against the smelly, scratchy carpet_ , Sam can't help but think. 

"All right," Dean says, and Sam hides his grin of victory. Dean is not as immune to Sam as he thinks he is. 

Dean dumps the dice in the cup and shakes it, before sending the dice sprawling across the carpet. He gets a six, a two, two ones, and a five. Sam looks at the dice, then up at his brother. Dean is biting his lip, obviously working out in his head what he wants to do. Eventually he sets the six aside and rolls again. 

This time he gets three more sixes, which is fine with Sam, because the idea is mostly to get _himself_ naked so that Dean will be faced up with his greatest temptation. 

Sam can only hope that the only thing Dean cannot resist is temptation. 

Dean rolls a four, pencils eighteen into his scorecard in the sixes box in the triple column, glances up at Sam. "Go," he says. 

Sam rolls a small straight on his first try. Nothing yet. He's disappointed, but it's early yet. 

The game proceeds apace, neither of them getting any advantages, but then Dean laughs out loud, sparkling and genuine, and gestures at his dice. He's just rolled a large straight. He stares at Sam, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, which sends a throb of pure arousal through Sam's cock. 

"Take off your belt," he says, and Sam is pleased. He was hoping Dean would go for something like that, rather than, say, his socks. Feet are decidedly unsexy. 

He stands up, unbuckles and slides it through the loops. Because he's still growing, and wearing Dean's hand-me-downs on much more slender hips, the jeans immediately gape out in front, slipping down off his hips, leaving the hipbones exposed. 

Dean looks like he can't even think for a second, but then he turns over the cup, pushes it towards Sam, who drops back down into a cross-legged position. Because they're playing on the floor, Dean can still see Sam's exposed skin even as he sits. This suits Sam perfectly fine. 

It takes a few more turns, but Sam rolls five fours over the course of his, grins at Dean. He's not going to let him off the hook that easily. He goes straight for the throat. 

"Take off your jeans," he says, and Dean actually _blushes_. 

When he strips out of them, _Sam_ blushes in unison: Dean's gone commando today. 

Who knew? 

Okay, so Sam knew that sometimes Dean went without. But he has to wonder why Dean went without today of all days. His birthday, for Christ's sake. He wonders if it means something. 

He wonders if it's foolish for him to think so. To _want_ it to mean something. 

Dean sits back down, but Sam can barely concentrate on the game now, because Dean's hard cock keeps dragging his attention to it, like a magnet. 

By the time the score-cards are half-filled, Sam's shirtless and shoeless and beltless and Dean's naked from the waist down and in nothing but a sleeveless tee on top, which leaves his gorgeous biceps completely out in the open. 

And then Dean rolls another Yahtzee, this time with sixes, like his first roll of the game promised he might. Dean crows, wiggles his hips on the floor, which makes his cock bob against his belly and almost makes Sam forget that he has to lose an article of clothing. 

Dean points to Sam's lower body. "Your jeans," he says. Sam nods, kicks out of them, now in nothing but his boxers. 

And Dean, suddenly much more invested in the game, begins to play like a man possessed. Every turn is suddenly an opportunity not to be wasted, and every time he's forced to concede disappointment, he visibly wilts (well, except for his cock). 

And then Sam rolls three twos, a one, and a three. He's not at all sure what he can do with those dice, but then he's suddenly got a lapful of Dean, and for the first time he realises that things have completely swapped between them: Sam used to sit in Dean's lap, little and fragrant with a baby-smell, but now it's totally different; Dean is actually slightly smaller, fits between Sam's thighs, and he smells of sweat and cigarettes, and then his mouth is sloppy all over Sam's, and Sam discovers that his plan has worked. 

Perhaps a little _too_ well: Dean can barely seem to manage any kind of co-ordination as he kisses Sam, two fingers hooked into Sam's waistband of his boxers, and Sam closes his eyes, revels in the warm feel of Dean against him, Dean's tee sticking to Sam's bare chest with sweat, and Sam doesn't know if it's his or Dean's. 

"I want you," he groans into Dean's ear. "It's always been you I've wanted, Dean, don't hold back." 

Dean's naked, impressively aroused cock is digging into Sam's belly, and he wants more than anything to touch it, but every time his fingers get close Dean seems to know it and pushes them out of the way. 

"Christ, Sammy," Dean says, and it ought to feel weird, the childhood moniker at a time like this, but strangely it sounds just right in the husky intonation of Dean's voice. Sam tries to get closer, to meld them together into one, wishes he could have Dean in every way possible, as his mouth slips over Dean's, his tongue driving into Dean's mouth, then out and tracing the swell of Dean's lower lip. 

This is the best type of Yahtzee Sam's ever had, as he grinds his own erection against Dean. And Dean, for once, doesn't pull back; he grips Sam in sure fingers and begins to tug and pull, bringing Sam so close to the edge he can see it, like wavering fault lines of colours in front of his vision. 

When he comes, he doesn't register that Dean is spattering cream against them both, he can only feel the waves of shuddering pleasure wracking his body. 

He opens his eyes when it's over, and they're flat on the floor, Dean boneless against his side, both of them panting and spent, and Sam's heart is beating like the drums at a Metallica concert. 

He turns his head, weakly, and at that moment the game is completely forgotten, Dean's face, his profile, his swollen sweetheart-shaped lips the only things Sam can think about. 

_I love you,_ he thinks, but he'd never say the words aloud. Dean shifts next to him, and Sam remembers with startling clarity that Dean jerked them off at once, cocks rubbing together, but still wouldn't allow Sam to touch him. 

Sam shivers a little, nudges Dean, cuddles closer even though cuddling is a cardinal sin in the Winchester way of life; Dean doesn't protest though. 

"Thank you," Sam whispers instead, the only way he can speak words of love to someone like Dean. 

Dean cracks open an eye, pupils still blown. "Happy birthday, you devious, underhanded little bitch," he mumbles. 

Sam presses closer, leaves a wet kiss on Dean's nude shoulder. Seals his mouth over one of Dean's collarbones nearby; he sucks as hard as he can. "Want everyone to know what you spent all night doing," he says, and regrets that Dean won't leave any easily visible marks on Sam; that would be a danger neither of them is willing to court, even though Sam wishes the bruises and bite marks were something he could wear as a badge of pride, easily accessible to prying eyes. 

Dean sighs, a soft broken sound, but it's saturated with contentment, so Sam lets his head fall against Dean's shoulder, lets the siren song of sleep overwhelm him. 

*

Dean wakes Sam in the wee hours of the morning with a kiss to an area that Sam's never felt lips on before. 

He almost comes right then and there, but thankfully doesn't; it's dim in the room and he can't really see Dean's face, which is kind of disappointing considering his fantasies. 

But that's quickly forgotten when Dean brings his cock into the warm slick of his mouth, sucking hard and making stars splinter across the backs of Sam's eyelids. His entire lower body comes off the floor, and instead of holding him down, which is what Sam expects, Dean does something and Sam's cock is abruptly crammed into Dean's actual _throat_ , snug in place and Dean's not even choking. 

Sam's cock is nearly all the way in Dean's mouth, but he reaches down to grab the base, intending to squeeze and hold himself back, but Dean's too fast for him; Dean intercepts his hand and tugs it out of the way. 

And then Dean's other hand is cupping the heavy weight of Sam's balls, soft and elastic in Dean's fingers as he rolls them gently in his palm, his mouth still working over Sam's cock. He releases a couple of inches, slides his free hand up to the suddenly exposed, damp flesh; cool air caresses where the heat of Dean's spit and tongue used to be, and then Dean's burying his tongue into Sam's slit, under the flap of skin, driving it right on inside, widening the little hole. 

Sam's breathing has long since given up pretending to be a normal rhythm. Sam can't even keep his eyes open as Dean makes magic with his mouth, doing things Sam has only ever fantasised about and a few things Sam didn't even know were _possible_ , much less dreamed about. 

Dean sucks the pre-come right out of Sam's hole, uses the secretions of his mouth as lube as he grips the base of Sam's cock and begins to go up and down, sucking strongly and every so often returning his tongue to the little hole, gradually expanding as Dean fucks it open. 

Sam can only figure he's lasted this long through such an expert blow job because he just got off only a couple of hours earlier, and he's thankful for it; he doesn't want to come yet, doesn't want this experience to end, because he gets the impression he's only being treated to it as a last-ditch birthday present and who knows if Dean will ever do it again? 

And then Dean traces the veins winding around Sam's cock with his tongue, applying pressure with the flat of the muscle right into the divot under the crown and letting go of the base of it; at the same time he cups Sam's balls again in time to feel the way they draw up, tight and tense, and Dean deliberately sinks down, his mouth engulfing Sam's cock, just as everything around Sam splits open into a wound of bright colours and a ringing in his ears. 

Dean lifts his head, his lips shining with what Sam can only imagine is a mixture of come and saliva in the dim light from the parking lot, and pets Sam's cock for a second, still softening, turning so sensitive that Sam yanks in a sharp breath before Dean's featherlight touch moves away, settling on Sam's thigh. 

"I didn't buy you anything," Dean says, and Sam can't even move, much less speak, hell, he can't even _breathe_. 

Dean starts to make little circles with his thumb on Sam's thigh. 

"Consider this your birthday present," he adds at last. "Don't tell Dad." 

Sam summons the energy to croak out a few words. "Dad even call?" 

"You know how he is, Sam, when he gets wrapped up in something. He'll figure it out in a few days, let you know he's thinking of you." 

"I'd rather have a gift from you anyway," Sam forces through his throat, still squeezed tight from his orgasm, pulse throbbing throughout his entire body. 

Dean tweaks his skin. "That's just because you just had the best blow job of your life," Dean says. 

Sam gulps. "The only one so far," he says, unwisely. Dean stiffens, then relaxes, but not before Sam catches the faint expression of guilt that crosses over his features. 

"You mean to tell me--" 

Sam shrugs, even against the floor. "It never came up," he says, and it takes him a minute to understand why Dean bursts out laughing, even if the laughter sounds a bit forced. "Very funny, Dean." 

"God, Sammy, I can't believe you've never gotten one before. You're fifteen; I got my first blow job when I was thirteen." 

"So you're an overachiever, shut up," Sam mutters, kicking at Dean's shin with his foot. Dean avoids the blow neatly, puts his palm on the flat of Sam's belly, his mouth still wet in the low light. 

"I bet you didn't even start jerking off until--" 

"Shut _up_ , Dean," Sam repeats. 

"Go to sleep, Sam," he says, and Sam doesn't mean to, not that easily, but his body is full of post-orgasm languor and Dean is warm where their bodies are in contact. He lets out a breathy sigh and his eyes slip shut, but not just before he sees something else unreadable on Dean's face. 

His last thought is, _Oh well, I'll worry about it in the morning._

*

Something breaks inside Dean. He can't help it, can't stop it when he wakes up in a few hours, skin stuck to Sam's with sweat and come, his mouth still bitter with Sam's jizz, and kisses the outer shell of Sam's ear, rolling them over so that Sam's flat on his back again. 

Something breaks, but Dean's still not quite ready to give over, even though he thinks maybe, just maybe, Sam's really into him in more than just a passing-phase kind of way. 

He moves slowly, touching sleep-hot skin, damp with sweat, and lays little kisses on a lightly freckled, broad chest, before getting to his feet. 

It's early Monday, he realises, when he looks at the clock. Sam needs to go to school, although he doesn't necessarily need to have target practise, not after the night they had, not after his birthday. 

Dean lets him sleep in while he tries to erase all traces of the way they spent their night. 

It's not too late, Dean thinks as he brushes the taste of Sam out of his mouth, to take it slowly, to ease them both into a new way of behaving around each other. 

But he's not gonna touch Sam any more than this till he's older. It's a vow he's just not going to break. 

Dean has no idea that Sam's resolve is going to turn out to be much more powerful than his own. 

*

"So, when a boy goes through puberty, he--" 

Sam tunes out the teacher, brought in to speak to their class about sex, and instead drifts back into a daydream about Dean and his mouth on Sam's cock the way it was a few days ago. 

He manages to pay enough attention to snag a condom and a little packet of lube -- free samples -- when the basket moves past him, but at this point Sam figures probably half the class is thinking about something else, more than likely because they've already _had_ sex by now. 

The other half is giggling like a bunch of hyenas at the zoo, because this is much too adult for them to handle just yet. Sam stuffs the condom and the lube into his jeans' pocket and pictures Dean again, his gorgeous profile, his green eyes, even his jutting hipbones with golden skin stretched across them, and promptly pops a boner. 

So he turns a little and stares at the back of Madelyn's head, even though he's less than enamoured of her these days; he needs an excuse for his erection, though, and the other girls are all sitting in a little gaggle behind him, where he can't see them. 

He wonders why Madelyn is sitting by herself, but is quickly distracted by an outburst of raucous giggles from the nearby huddle of teen-age boys. 

He's paying so little attention to the seminar that he doesn't even notice it's over until the other kids are filing out of the classroom. He shoves his hand down deeper into his pocket, feeling the samples stashed in there, and follows the rest of them out. 

*

Sam finds out that he's not as easily complacent as he'd like to be. 

They're out behind the school, in the grassy little area that rolls down a hill and becomes a road which is almost always deserted, and Dean's lying back on his elbows, Sam in front, between his legs. 

There's no-one around for as far as the eye can see, and the grass is warm and soft in the creeping twilight, the sun banked and sliding down the horizon in a splash of colour. 

It's so fucking beautiful, and Sam wants to enjoy it in every way he can, and he turns in the cradle of Dean's thighs and gazes up at him, one finger going up to outline perfect lips hued rose and gold in the dying daylight. 

Dean sighs and relaxes into the gesture, his neck still bruised from Sam's mouth. 

They've been at this school for almost two months now, and Sam's spent most of that time chasing Dean, like everyone else at school. Thing is, most of them know now that Dean and Sam are an item, although Sam's been careful -- and Dean has too, of course -- to keep anyone from finding out that they're actually almost sleeping together. 

Sam's been fifteen for three whole days, and he's still waiting for Dean to make his move, but his brother hasn't done anything more than wake him up every morning with kisses, drive him to school, and allow them to make out for hours before bed. 

Sam's getting antsy, impatient, for things to move forward. He's fifteen, after all. He's pretty sure Dean lost his virginity around thirteen, and Sam hates to be left behind. He's gotta do something. 

He wonders, as he slides their mouths together in a kiss, if Dean's still got his ass-virginity, or if Sam gets to pop his cherry. 

"Wanna take it to the next step," he breathes into Dean's mouth. "C'mon, Dean." 

But Dean tenses, his body going stiff and hard under Sam's. "No, Sammy," he orders, and Sam _hates_ being ordered around. He leaps to his feet, anger prickling beneath his skin, boiling his blood into a roiling froth of impatience and fury. 

Dean's on his feet now too, and Sam stares at Dean hard, eyes boring into his brother's, as Dean starts to stalk off. 

Sam can't let that happen. He runs, faster than Dean now, legs longer, and grabs Dean round the waist, spins him to face Sam. 

"Goddammit, Dean," Sam snarls. "I don't see what the problem is. I'm so _fucking_ sick and tired of playing this game with you. Every step forward we make, you backpedal like there's no tomorrow." 

"You're a _kid_ , Sam," Dean shouts, and Sam's glad it's afterhours, no-one to hear them. He pushes against the wall of Dean's chest. 

"I'm not a piece of fragile crystal that needs to be wrapped up in cotton wool," Sam bellows, louder than he meant to. And then, before he even thinks about it, he's pushing Dean down, slamming him against the ground, mouth fierce and insistent on Dean's, then he rolls his brother over, fingers clumsy as they work Dean's jeans down his hips. 

Dean's making angry noises, but he doesn't struggle, not much; he lets Sam strip him out of his clothes. He starts, at one point, to say something; it's aborted by the feel of Sam's fingers on his bare skin. 

Sam can't get out of his own clothes fast enough, mind still a haze of teen-age volatility, full of hormones and angst and _desire_ , and when he lines up his cock with Dean's hole, he realises he has no idea how to do this. 

Dean finally goes up on his forearms, speaks in a strangled, broken voice. "You need lube, Sammy," he says, and he sounds breathless and anxious. 

"I know that," Sam spits back, and on some level he did know, but he's pretty sure he doesn't have any. 

He's lucky, though, because he remembers with a sudden blinding flash that they had the sex-ed talk today, and he has a sample in his pocket. He wonders, briefly, if on some subconscious level that the reason he chose _now_ was because he was actually prepared. 

The lube feels different, better, than Dean's shampoo on his cock, and then he presses, blunt head of his cock to Dean's tight little pucker, and it's glowing red in the falling light, and then Sam exerts more pressure, slides right into the clasp of Dean's ass. 

Dean moans, but he doesn't try to pull away, even though Sam knows this is not what he wanted. 

Sam doesn't care. Sam wants this for _both_ of them, and he knows, instinctively, that Dean would never have gotten around to this point unless he was pressed. 

He starts to thrust shallowly, not quite sure how deep to go, only the head really in the grip of Dean's body. 

So Dean helps him. "Deeper," his brother rasps, and raises his lower body. Sam stares at the white gleaming globes of Dean's ass, the intoxicating sight of his own cock half-buried into that cherry-red opening, and obliges: he sinks in another inch. 

Dean feels rich and silky inside, and Sam's overwhelmed, barely breathing, heart fluttering and beating furiously against his ribcage, and then, without even intending to, he falls into a bit of a trance, cock plunging in deep, and stops, holds still. 

"Go on, go on," Dean says, swearing under his breath. "Motherfucking Christ." 

Sam moves. He moves in and out, learning the rhythm, careless and uneven thrusts at first, Dean's hole sloppy with lube and Sam's pre-come, and then Sam explodes, unexpectedly, fills Dean with come. 

Dean sighs and collapses against the grass. 

"Anybody ever tell you no means no?" he asks, but Sam, sliding out, every last bit of the silk of Dean's inner walls stroking against Sam's super-sensitive cock, doesn't respond. _You didn't say no,_ he thinks, though, as he stares at his freshly-fucked older brother. 

Dean flops over onto his back, his come cooling sticky in the grass. 

He wondered once what lengths he'd have to go to get this. 

He hopes it wasn't a waste of time. 

*

"I saw you," Madelyn hisses into Sam's ear in pre-calculus. "I saw you and that college slut. You like fucking his ass, you fag?" 

Sam can feel his face burn. This is very, very bad. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, carefully. 

"You just shoved him right down. You think that makes it okay?" She's angry, vicious in her jealousy. And just like that Sam remembers that her father is a cop. Oh, _shit_. 

"That never happened," Sam says, glaring at her. How could he have ever thought she was pretty? How could Dean have ever wanted her mouth on him? 

"I'm gonna tell my daddy," she threatens. "Your college slut'll end up in the slammer, and you'll wind up with children's services, because no-one's ever seen you with a guardian." 

This is so bad that Sam's stomach is clenching up sickly, seething inside him, and he wonders if he's going to throw up. He's gotta play it cool; maybe it's not too late to bluff his way out of this. 

She dispels that with her next words. 

"You've got a mole on your left ass-cheek, did you know that?" 

"Dude," Sam says, snapping at last. "Are you a fucking voyeur? You like getting off watching other people _actually_ get laid?" 

"I was walking home," she says primly. "You were too busy fucking like animals to notice me." 

And it's true. Sam smothers his terrible anxiety the best he can. "I'm done with this conversation," he says, and stands up, storms out of class. 

He gets a text on his cell phone from Gareth as he's running to get to Dean as fast as he can, his lungs aching, his legs like rubber. He lets himself take a break to read the text. 

_is it true?_ it reads. Sam doesn't bother to reply. 

Everyone knows by now that Sam, fifteen and under-age, fucked an adult. This is looking very grim for Dean unless they get their asses out of town. 

By the time he runs up to Dean, gasping, his brother's standing in front of the Impala, looking under her hood. 

"Sammy?" he asks, concern written across his face. 

Sam can barely speak, so he brings up the text message to show Dean, forcing the word, "Madelyn," through his swollen throat. 

Dean's brilliant, he understands instantly. He slams the hood down with less care than he'd usually show the Impala, a shining indication that he's worried and knows how dire the situation is. 

"All right, Sam, pack your shit. They're not gonna get here for a few minutes at least; she's in school still." 

Sam bends over, still trying to catch his breath, oxygen running like fire through him. 

Dean's out of sight in a matter of seconds, the motel room door slamming, and Sam struggles to his feet. 

It's not until they're three towns away that Sam remembers the Yahtzee game, buried under the motel bed after they'd lain there all night on the floor. 

"Yahtzee," he says, and he feels like this is it, the end. 

Dean doesn't reply. 

They pass two state lines without stopping, Sam forced to take the wheel for awhile. 

And when they check into the motel, Dean gets two queen beds, and refuses to sleep in the same one with Sam. 

It's the last time they spend a night together alone for months, because Dean has to put a call in to their father and tell him where they are. 

It's also the last good-night kiss Sam gets from Dean. 

It's not that Sam doesn't keep trying, but Dean's suddenly an impenetrable fortress, incapable of being swayed, not even by Sam's most pleadingly persuasive looks. 

So this is what a broken heart looks like. 

*

Sam applies to colleges. Sam gets in. Sam leaves, goes to Stanford, tries to cast all of that behind him, the outstanding warrant for Dean's arrest that they can never let their father find out about, the Yahtzee game that was abandoned in their flight. 

He does everything he can to forget. 

He dates a girl, discovers that he likes girls. 

He compartamentalises Dean, shoves that whole torrid affair into a box at the back of his brain, locks it up and tosses the key. 

But the thing is, when he slowly enters Jess, one hand on her neck, one hand at the small of her back, he remembers what it was like, his first time; it was imperfect and not all that good, but it was okay anyway; he doesn't even remember any more if Dean came. 

He _wants_ , but he can't have, and Dean doesn't call. 

Sam thinks maybe it's because he raped his older brother. 

Dean never calls.


	6. Listen to Your Heart (epilogue)

**Listen to Your Heart [epilogue]**

"You can't just break in here and--" 

Dean drops the box he's holding and Yahtzee spills out of it, but before Sam can make sense of what that means, Dean shuts him up with a kiss. It tastes good, better than Sam expected, better than he remembers. 

But it's _wrong_ somehow. Dean's the one who shut them down, who strained their relationship to the breaking point and then refused to see Sam. 

"I can do whatever I want," Dean growls, and crowds Sam up against the living room wall. Jess is asleep in the next room, and Sam's making out with his brother. 

"I thought you didn't want this?" Sam challenges. Dean drives him harder against the wall. 

"I thought I could give it up," Dean says. "Like smoking. But I managed to lose that vice. I can't seem to lose this one." His mouth is hot, his sweat sharp and stagnant in the air, his breath soaking into Sam's skin. 

"I've got a girlfriend, Dean, this is not--" 

"Don't you want me any more?" Dean doesn't even sound vulnerable, Dean sounds strong, powerful, sure of himself. 

Sam can't deny it. He wants to, but it's something he's never managed to forget, and now that Dean's standing here in front of him, the box full of _Dean_ has split open and spilled its contents across Sam's brain, spewed over every thought. 

"I do," he whispers. "I do." 

Dean levers another kiss against his mouth. 

"I do, too." 

*

And when Jess dies, Sam falls into familiar arms like he can't breathe, struck hollow and bleeding from her loss, and Dean feels so good, warm and solid and _there_ , and Sam clings to it. It feels just like he remembers from that long-ago year, when he was just a kid with hero-worship for his older brother and a perpetual boner to go along with it. 

They don't talk about that late afternoon in the grass, but Sam can feel Dean's absolution in every caress, every movement of their bodies in tandem; Dean's forgiveness is palpable, rising up from under his very skin, and Sam doesn't question any more whether what he did was wrong, whether that was the reason Dean let him go, because Dean's here _now_ , giving himself up to Sam like everything in the in-between never happened. 

He opens Dean up with his cock, feeling that slick heat surrounding him, and Dean, knees up, facing Sam, throws his head back. 

Sam feels something break inside him. 

He forces Dean into the mattress with his thrusts, and when they're both finished, Sam's come dripping back out of Dean's ass, Dean's come a tapestry of slick on their skin, Sam can't hide from it any more. 

"You left me," he says brokenly, even though it's a statement that makes no sense. 

"You're the one who left," Dean says at once. 

"You left long before that," Sam says. "I was only fifteen. I didn't even get to turn sixteen before our relationship was over." 

"Some things in life have to happen, Sam," Dean says, his older brother, 'I-know-better-than-you', voice firmly in place. 

"How do you break up with your brother?" Sam asks. "The truth is, you can't. Nothing I did, Dean. Even Jessica couldn't obliterate it." 

Dean stretches, joints popping, and for a second Sam remembers a long-ago night when his own joints were sore and swollen, and Dean slipped into his bed and soothed them. 

He grieves just a little bit for that poor teen-ager who got his heart broken. 

"I'm here now," Dean says at last, broad palm smoothing down over Sam's bicep. 

"Don't leave," Sam whispers. 

His heart balloons to impossible proportions when Dean replies, 

"Never." 

~End.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> further A/N: The prologue section title is from 'Slow Like Honey' by Fiona Apple; section one title is from 'Carry on, My Wayward Son' by Kansas; section two title is from 'Hot 'n Cold' by Katy Perry; section three title is from 'You're My Temptation' by Alice Cooper; section four title is from 'Shadow' by Britney Spears; the epilogue section title is from 'Listen to Your Heart' by D.H.T.


End file.
